


A Devil Dog in Baggy Pants

by buffyaddict13



Category: Band of Brothers, Generation Kill
Genre: Angst and Humor, Big Bang Challenge, Crossover, Friendship, Gen, lots of swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-10
Updated: 2012-08-10
Packaged: 2017-11-11 20:28:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 31,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/482598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buffyaddict13/pseuds/buffyaddict13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Josh Ray Person is a US Marine. He thinks he knows what war is. He thinks he knows what friendship means. He thinks there’s no such as time travel. Ray is about to find out he’s wrong on all three counts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2010 Big Bang Challenge and previously posted on LJ.
> 
> I love Generation Kill. I adore Band of Brothers. So I smashed them together. The end.

_Way back when at the dawn of time  
in the valley of death where the sun don't shine,  
the roughest toughest fighter ever known was made  
from a M-16 and a live grenade.  
He was a mean, green, lean fightin' machine  
who proudly bore the title of Recon Marine._   
~ USMC Cadence March   
  
  
  
Fucking  _Brad._   
  
Nothing like standing around watching Sergeant Colbert try not to blow himself to shit.   
  
"Brad," Ray calls, "don't you think you should let somebody else do that? Like someone who knows what the fuck they're doing?"   
  
"Shut up Ray," Brad calls in a tone that indicates he's not really listening. Sometimes Ray thinks Brad's  _shut up Ray_  is just a Pavlovian response to Ray opening his mouth. And that? Is some hurtful shit, homes.   
  
Ray gets why Brad's bent out of shape over the undetonated ordnance. Yeah, an artillery shell could go off at any time, while Ma and Pa Haji are sleeping, while the kids are playing soccer in what's left of the yard. But it's fucking dangerous and Christ, they've already come this far. Brad already detonated one bomb, he should quit while he still can. This shit isn't his job. If Brad gets himself killed now, Ray is going to be mighty fucking  _pissed._   
  
And from the looks of it, Poke and Ray aren't the only ones who think Brad's Mission Impossible shit is 110% retarded. Here come Fick and Wynn.   
  
Ray walks up to the edge of the pit Brad's working in. "Dude, you know this has got to be some dangerous shit when  _I_  think it's a bad idea, right?"   
  
Brad doesn't even look up. He just clenches his jaw and says, "Ray" in way that makes his name sounds exactly like  _fuck off._   
  
Ray puts up his hands, backs off. "Okay, fine, but you've got company at six o'clock."   
  
Person joins Poke near the Humvee while Fick bitches Brad out. Actually, Fick hardly ever raises his voice, so it probably doesn't count as bitching. Fick's got seniority, and more importantly, he's got something fucking rare in these parts: common sense.   
  
"Get out of there, Brad."   
  
Colbert doesn't want to. "Sir, we've another Mark-82."   
  
"That's an order," Fick says.   
  
"Sir, I strongly request--"   
  
Fick shakes his head. "I will not let you blow yourself up trying to maintain property values in Greater Baghdad. That's a no-go."   
  
Wynn adds his two cents. "Up and out, Sergeant."   
  
Fick's losing patience. Usually he looks like a kid playing dress-up in his cammies. But when he glares he switches into stone-cold badass. It's a little disconcerting.   
  
"Get out of the hole." Fick's voice is dangerously calm.   
  
Brad climbs out. So he's not retarded after all. Ray was starting to wonder if retardese was catching.   
  
Fick's face softens. "We're done here, Brad."   
  
The Lieutenant and Gunny walk away. Colbert looks at the shell, starts toward the Humvee. Thank fucking God. Ray can't wait to get out of this shit hole.   
  
By the time Brad hands the det kit back to Poke, Walt and Trombley are already in the Victor. Reporter's sitting in the feeble shade of a palm tree writing in his notebook. Probably some shit like  _Dear Diary, Rudy is so goddamn pretty I stopped caring about my fucking girlfriend's picture._  Colbert opens the passenger side door, stares at Ray.   
  
Ray stares back.   
  
"Get in, Ray." Brad says.   
  
Ray pats at his pockets. Shit. Where the fuck are his pimp shades? He looks like a cross between a rock star and Raoul Duke in those things. No reason hot Haji chicks can't have something nice to look at now and then. Plus, it's really fucking bright out here.   
  
"Just a sec. I dropped my shades."   
  
He shields his eyes, looks toward the shell hole. There's a glint in the grass. Thank Christ.   
  
Ray jogs back over dirt, grass and rocks. Poke said something about Chaffin and Jacks finding some bootleg booze and Ray is wondering exactly how drunk he should get tonight when he's blasted backwards.   
  
He can see the Humvee and it's upside down.   
  
No,  _he's_  upside down.   
  
Jesus fucking Christ, the motherfucking shell exploded and Ray's--   
  
* * *   
  
\--gone blind.   
  
Mother _fucker._   
  
Ray rubs at his face, blinking hard, when he realizes he's seeing stars just like in a fucking cartoon.   
  
There's an explosion to his left and he realizes the stars are actually tracers and flares. Anti-aircraft fire. Machine gun fire. He hasn't lost his vision; it's night.   
  
And he's  _still_  falling.   
  
Ray looks down. His heart thunders. His stomach clenches. "What the fucking  _fuck_ ?" he screams, but the words are carried away on the wind.   
  
He looks up, stares stupidly at the parachute floating above him, pale and round as the moon. He can make out the distant outlines of airplanes through the smoke and clouds; they're big motherfuckers, but not like the ones he jumped out of at Basic Airborne School. Ray's brain struggles to make sense of what the hell is going on, fails.   
  
The ground is coming fast.   
  
There are other guys falling around him, hundreds, maybe thousands of parachutes floating through the night. While he watches, a stream of bullets punches through some poor bastard's chest. Another guy's chute doesn't even open, he plummets straight to the ground, screaming. Jesus Christ, he's got to get out of here.   
  
Ray's heading right for a tree. There's more machine gun fire. In the distance, a plane crashes into the ground, erupts into a massive ball of fire.   
  
"What. The. Fuck. Is happening?" Ray shrieks, and yanks one of the lines. The parachute is nothing like the ones he trained with, it's some kind of fucking throwback to 1902. What  _is_  this bullshit? He veers away from the tree, braces for the ground. He hits hard.   
  
The chute drags him another five feet while he struggles to stay upright, finally lands on his hands and knees, rolls onto his shoulder. There doesn't seem to be anyone in the immediate area, but that doesn't mean he has time to lie here like a fucking target. He yanks at the harness; the lock mechanism is jammed. Of  _course_  it is. Ray feels for his kabar but it's not in his leg sheath. Most likely because the sheath is no longer on his leg. Ray stares at his leg, disgusted. His annoyance downshifts into confusion. He's not wearing his fucking cammies. His uniform is gone, replaced with some olive green bullshit. At least it looks olive green. It's hard to tell in the dark.   
  
Okay. That's  _it_ . Ray clenches his fists, seething. Motherfucking cocksucker asshole bastard sonofabitch twat humping  _fuck_ . He can't think of anything worse to say. No, wait, he's a pretty creative guy. Fuckballs. Cuntrocks. Shitfuck. He can invent curse words from now until next week, but that's not going to fix the fact he seems to be pretty well fucked.   
  
He has to calm down. Ray takes a deep breath, then another. He glances around for any of his mysterious fellow airborne. He's still alone. Okay. Time to take fucking stock. This Marine has some fucking recon to do. He doesn't have a kabar, but there's a knife tucked inside his boot. Two seconds ago he was wearing his brown suede boots. Now he's wearing shitty leather boots laced up to his fucking chin.   
  
Ray uses the knife to cut himself out of the parachute, pushes himself to his feet, staggers. His ankle feels like it's full of ground glass, but he can walk on it. He grimaces, hisses, "Dicksuck cockfuck, fuckstick" like a sort of mantra. He can  _feel_  the bruises forming down his shoulder all the way to his wrist. Ray limps straight for the tree he nearly crashed into, crouches with his back against it, surveys his surroundings.   
  
Plenty of trees and hedges. He automatically reaches for his M-16 only to realize that's gone too. So much for being one with his rifle. Jesus Christ, he might as well be naked. How the fuck can this day get any worse?   
  
He touches his head gingerly. He hadn't been wearing his kevlar when the shell exploded, but he's wearing a helmet now. Ray yanks at the strap, pulls it off, stares at it. It's cheapass green metal, stenciled with a white spade. Three chevrons on the back indicate the rank of sergeant. That's all super interesting, but what really gets Ray's attention is the fact there's no light, no comms, no NVGs attached.   
  
He shifts the weight off his bad ankle and his boot knocks against something on the ground. An apple. Ray stares at it for a long moment. Then he looks up, checks the tree. It's an apple tree. Half a dozen other trees are off to the right. He's in an orchard. There's lush grass beneath his feet. Ray turns his head. In the distance he can see the dark wall of a hedge. Okay, there's no way this is Iraq. Unless there's some kind of secret fucking oasis in the middle of Baghdad.   
  
Fucking grass. Fucking apples. Fucking retarded parachute. Fucking Brad and his James Bond stupid-ass  _Look at me, I'm a good American_  ordnance bullshit. Ray exhales slowly. Calmly. Okay, there's an explanation for this. A perfectly reasonable explanation. Just because Ray doesn't have a vehicle, headset, or his rifle, it's not the end of the world. He's a Marine. Marines make do.   
  
Ray finishes inventory of his pockets. Aside from the knife, he's got two grenades that look like they're left over from Korea, a dented canteen and an old mess kit clipped to his belt, a pack of Wrigley's chewing gum, a silver lighter engraved with an "R," and a pack of Lucky Strike cigarettes. He stares at the cigarettes. Ray's bought a lot of cancer sticks over the years, but he can't recall ever seeing this particular brand at the Gas-n-Go.   
  
Ray pulls a smoke from the pack, lights up. He inhales until he feels light-headed, until he can feel the smoke in his lungs. He exhales, closes his eyes, listens. There's gunfire, not too far off. There's yelling. The voices are foreign, but not Haji. Familiar, but he can't place the language, most of the fragmented words are buried beneath the roar of artillery. Ray concentrates, exhaling more smoke, careful to keep the glowing tip of his cigarette toward the tree or grass. These don't sound like American or Iraqi weapons. The machine guns sound slower...heavier. All the artillery sounds off, like something out of an old war movie.   
  
There's a deafening shriek nearby, not the sound of an RPG. Some kind of mortar? A plume of fire and smoke erupts less than a klick away.  _Fuck._  Ray stubs out the cigarette, calculates the distance to the hedge.   
  
He grips the knife, grits his teeth through the pain, and runs balls out to the towering hedge. Now he's parallel to a dirt two-lane road. If he wants to get away from the gunfire, he's going to have to see what's on the other side of the hedge.   
  
Eventually.   
  
Ray checks the sky. It's clearer now, but not clear enough to find the Big Dipper or North Star, so he's not sure which direction he's heading. He reaches back with one hand, touches the foliage behind him. It's real. He's next to a gigantic goddamn hedge in the middle of someone else's war in someone else's uniform.   
  
NAMBLA, lack of good pussy, and overzealous Starbucks franchising might--or might not--have gotten Ray to Iraq, but they sure as fuck didn't get him here. So what did? And who's doing the shooting if it's not Hajis? And what the fuck was the parachute all about?   
  
He can't make sense of it. Either Ashton Kutcher's hiding under the fucking hedge with a camera, or he's been tossed into some massive SERE training exercise. And yeah, Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape Training was a fucking drag, but Ray's pretty sure they wouldn't stoop to throwing an unconscious Marine from an airplane. Would they?   
  
_Or_ , maybe he's dreaming. He's still unconscious after getting knocked on his ass, and this is all one crazy dream. Unless he's dead. Which would fucking suck. Because Ray doesn't believe in heaven or hell, and if this is one of those, well. God has some work to do because: lamest afterlife ever.   
  
"I am so fucking sick of this shit," Ray announces to the world at large. If this is some kind of epic practical joke Ray is seriously gonna kill someone.  _Seriously._   
  
A loud whisper comes from the other side of the hedge. "Ray? Shut the hell up. What the fuck are you doing?"   
  
Oh, thank  _Christ._   
  
Ray can't place the voice, not Brad or Poke. But maybe Walt. He nods his head from side to side, works the kinks out of his neck. Time to get to the fucking bottom of this. He counts to three, rounds the corner, and comes out on the other side of the hedge.   
  
Walt's not there. But two strangers are.   
  
"Who the fuck are you?" Ray growls in his best  _I'ma fuck you up_  voice. Both guys are white, wearing the same uniform as Ray. They both have Screaming Eagle patches on their left shoulders. Ray wants to check his own shoulder, but there's no way he's taking his eyes off these two. He holds the knife loosely, ready to cut if necessary. He hates close combat, but it's not like he has a choice.   
  
They're both staring at Ray like he's lost his mind. The shorter one's got a mortar tube and plate balanced over his shoulder. The taller guy's got a pistol pointed at the ground.   
  
The short one rolls his eyes. "Quit fucking around, Pers," he hisses. "We gotta go."   
  
The tall one advances, smiling. "Jeez, am I glad we found you. I feel like we've been walking forever and I haven't seen nobody but a bunch of fucking Krauts."   
  
_Krauts._   
  
As in Germans. As in World War Two. As in France. And D-Day. As in the 101st Airborne Division of the United States fucking Army.   
  
Ray points the knife at Tall. "Are you seriously trying to tell me this is fucking Operation Overlord? D-Day? All that Saving Private Ryan bullshit?"   
  
Tall glances at Shorty. "Who's Private Ryan?"   
  
Ray throws his helmet on the ground. "This is fucking bullshit!" he shouts. "I call bullshit on this whole fucking day!"   
  
"Jesus Ray, put a lid on it," Shorty says. "You tryin' to bring every goddamn Kraut in the area down on us?" Shorty studies Ray's face. "What's wrong? You hurt?"   
  
What's  _wrong_ ? Ray doesn't even have the words. He takes a step back, puts distance between himself and Shorty. "I don't fucking know you."   
  
Shorty and Tall exchange glances.   
  
"Maybe he hit his head," Shorty says.   
  
Tall frowns. "I don't know. Maybe those friggin' pills made him loopy."   
  
Ray looks from Tall to Shorty. He doesn't know these guys, so why do they act like they know him?   
  
Shorty rubs his nose. His face is camouflaged with grease paint and now he's got a big white stripe across his nose like a reverse Indian.    
  
Ray stares at him.   
  
He looks all friendly and smiley and shit. With a hint of unease around the edges, so at least he's not stupid.   
  
"Pers, it's me."   
  
"Me who?"   
  
Tall shakes his head. "This is a joke, right?" He looks to Shorty for confirmation. "He's fucking with us," he says and holsters his pistol. "Again."   
  
"Skip," Shorty says patiently. "It's Skip." He nods at Tall. "And Duke."   
  
Ray cautiously returns the knife to his boot. "I've never seen either of you assholes before in my life."   
  
Skip laughs. It's a warm laugh, amused, easy-going. Exactly the opposite of everything Ray is feeling.   
  
"You actually had me going there for a minute. Quit kidding around, you big moron. We gotta haul ass, try to find the rest of Easy Company."   
  
"I'm Bravo Company," Ray protests.   
  
"And I'm fuckin' Mickey Mouse," Skip says, and gives Ray a little push forward. "Move it."   
  
"What the hell is Bravo Company?" Duke wants to know.   
  
Skip shrugs, casts Ray a sideways look. "How in the hell does Arlene put up with you?"   
  
Ray's brain has stopped functioning properly. The sounds Skip and Duke are making sound like English, but Ray can't seem to make sense of anything they say. Also, how come these dickweeds both have dog names? Who's in the rest of the company? Spot and Rex? Fucking Marmaduke?   
  
Gunfire cracks closer. Ray takes a hesitant step after Skip, stops.   
  
His girlfriend  _Arlene_ ?   
  
Ray snatches his dog tags, squints at them in the dark. The rubber spacers are gone, all he has are two pieces of metal. Both tags list the name RAY H PERSON. His next of kin is listed as June Person of Topeka, Kansas.  _Well,_  Ray thinks,  _I'm not in fucking Kansas anymore_ . He claps a hand over his mouth to keep from laughing. Maybe's gone insane. He saw too many Iraqi kids die and now he's all fucked up just like that time Hawkeye saw the mom smother her baby on M*A*S*H. Ray bends forward, plants his hands on his thighs, tries desperately to think.   
  
So. His dog tags say his name is Ray H. Person. He has a girlfriend named Arlene. He's wearing a Paratrooper uniform. Apparently, it's D-Day. Ray shakes his head. No, this isn't happening. This isn't real.   
  
He thinks of Grandma Arlene, whom he still misses. Arlene was married to his grandpa Ray, who died when he was five. His grandpa Ray, whom he's named after. His grandpa Ray, who was a paratrooper in World War Two. His grandpa Ray, whose mother's name was June.    
  
"Ray,  _come on,_ " Skip whispers.   
  
Ray sighs and walks as fast as his ankle will let him, to catch up with the other troopers. "Are you telling me this is June 6, 1944?" Ray demands.   
  
"Christ, Ray. Knock it off, willya? It ain't funny anymore." Duke says, sounding pissed.   
  
Skip slows, puts a hand on Ray's shoulder. "Maybe you gotta concussion or something. I heard they can mess your memory up. Eugene better check you out."   
  
"Sure," Duke snorts, "if we ever find the fucking rally point."   
  
Okay. End of the line. This? Is fucking  _whacked_ .   
  
Ray knocks Skip's hand off his shoulder. "Listen homes, I am  _not_  my fucking grandpa." Ray thumps his chest. "I am a motherfucking warrior, a United States Marine. I'm supposed to be in Iraq right now, fucking up the infidels." He points a finger, first at Skip, then Duke. "I don't know what the fuck is going on here, but I  _do_ know none of this shit is real."   
  
Gunfire. Close.   
  
Huh.  _That_  sounded real.   
  
"Fuck," Skip says. "I fucking wish I had some goddamn mortars for this thing."   
  
"How many troops?" Ray asks.   
  
"What?"   
  
"Either of you geniuses know how many Germans, Krauts, whatever are on our ass?"   
  
Duke laughs. "A fucking lot, Pers. And I don't think the three of us are much of a match, you know. What, you think maybe Skip can smack 'em with an empty mortar tube, I can shoot until I run out of ammo, and maybe you can bore them into a fucking stupor by talking a lot of nonsense about your grandpa and the Marines? No thanks."   
  
There's another fucking hedgerow less than 200 yards away. What the fuck is up with the French and their fucking shrubbery? "Behind there," Skip says, and he and Duke start running.   
  
Ray follows. There's probably a hundred Germans camped out behind that fucking thing, just waiting to heil Hitler them to death. They're a few feet away from the edge when somebody whispers: "Flash."   
  
"Thunder," Duke calls.   
  
"Thank Christ," Skip says, and drops the mortar equipment as he slides behind the greenery. "That shit is fucking heavy."   
  
Two guys are crouched together, wearing the same uniforms as Ray. But the patch on their shoulders is the Double A insignia of the 82nd Airborne, instead of a Screaming Eagle. One of them holds a rifle. An M-1 from the looks of it. At least it's not a fucking musket. Ray experiences an almost physical yearning for his M-16. Maybe Trombley was right to treat his like trim after all.   
  
"Hey, you guys 101st?" the first 82nd asks.   
  
"Yeah."   
  
82nd takes a drink from his canteen, wipes his mouth. "Do you happen to know where the fuck we are?"   
  
"I saw a sign for St. Come du Mont about four miles back," Skip says. "We've got a good twenty miles to go. At least."   
  
"Shit, we're supposed to get to Vierville."   
  
More gunfire. And German. This time Ray can make out the words.   
  
"Loss. Schnell!"   
  
"Christ, where are those fuckers?" Duke asks softly. He sinks to the ground, rests his hands on one knee, pistol at the ready.   
  
"I don't suppose either of you guys got mortars?" Skip asks the 82nd guys hopefully.   
  
"Nah. Sorry. We lost all our shit in the drop. That prop blast was so fucking strong I'm lucky I still got my boots on."   
  
Ray watches as the armed 82nd guy takes up a defensive position next to Duke. Ray counts three muzzle flashes. Bullets snap much too close, twigs and leaves fill the air like confetti. How can this be real? Is Ray really supposed to believe he's in the middle of World War Two and fucking Nazis are shooting at him?  _Really_ ? Jesus, nobody ever told him Ripped Fuel makes you fucking delusional. Somebody needs to update the fucking label on that shit.   
  
And then one of the 82nd guys drops and Ray's face is hot and wet. Ray puts a hand to his cheek, it comes away red. The trooper's head is gone. Duke's firing back, Skip's swearing, the 82nd guy who's still alive is freaking out, trying to drag his dead friend under the hedge. Fuck fucking  _fuck._   
  
Ray doesn't even think about what he's doing. He grabs Dead Guy's M-1, aims at a muzzle flash, fires.    
  
Next to Ray, a bullet  _tinks_  off Skip's helmet. "Shit!" Skip yelps.   
  
Ray pulls out one of his antique grenades, hands it to Skip. "How's your aim?"   
  
"Better than yours," Skip says, straightening his helmet.   
  
Ray fires again. He's not used to the rifle, but one of the Germans goes down. Skip tosses the grenade and the explosion sends two or three more Krauts flying, screaming through the air like broken dolls. Duke drops another one, and the last remaining Kraut runs for the hills. Or plains. Or whatever the applicable geography is in this fucking place.   
  
Ray wipes his forehead with the back of his hand, looks at the blood on his fingers. It's real blood. He can smell the sharp tang of it, the smoke, the cordite. He can feel the adrenaline pumping through him, the sweat soaking this skin.   
  
"Those  _fuckers_ ," the 82nd guy says hoarsely, "they killed Hank." He bows his head, presses a hand to his eyes. He sighs, pulls Hank's tags off, slips them into his pocket. "Okay." He stares dully at the small group. "Who's the highest rank? I'm a Corporal." He pauses. "Corporal Jim DeLacey."   
  
"Corporal Skip Muck," Skip says. "Nice to meet ya."   
  
Muck? What kind of a last name is  _Muck_ ?   
  
"Private First Class William Dukeman," Duke says.   
  
Three heads swivel to look at Ray.   
  
Ray sighs. Fuck it. "Corporal Ray Person of the US Marines."   
  
"Ignore him," Skip says wearily. "He's a sergeant and he's with the 101st. He's just a little out of it."   
  
Ray looks at Muck, startled. That's right, his helmet has three chevrons. "I'm a sergeant?"   
  
Half a dozen emotions flit over Skip's face. Ray can pick out annoyance--he's seen that plenty of times--along with pity, worry, and something bordering on affection. "Yeah," Muck says finally. "We'll see what happens when we reach the rally point." Skip shrugs. "But for now, you hold the highest rank, Pers."   
  
Fine. Ray, who knows the least about what's going on, who's stuck in some kind of retarded dream, is in charge. Ray's finally promoted to Sergeant and it's not even real. Figures.   
  
* * *   
  
Theoretically, a night drop on German-occupied France was a damn good idea. In practicality though, not so much.   
  
As they make their way toward St. Come du Mont, more paratroopers join Ray's little band in ones and twos. They swap stories of missed drop zones and lost weapons. Musette bags, weapons, ammo, all kinds of shit blew off during the jump. Dukeman is especially pissed about losing something called a "leg bag" which sounds super fucking retarded, in Ray's opinion.   
  
Then again,  _everything_  sounds super fucking retarded to Ray at the moment. His ankle hurts. It turns out Skip really likes to chat. Normally Ray wouldn't mind, as he's been known to be slightly verbose himself, but he doesn't give a fuck about why you should always carry an extra undershirt. And who even says  _undershirt_ ?   
  
The sky gradually brightens into morning, revealing the extent of the night's chaos. And carnage. Jesus, there are bodies everywhere. Dead paratroopers hang from trees, gutted by German bayonets. They lie in fields and roads. There are plenty of dead Germans too.   
  
Dukeman walks up to a Kraut corpse, rolls it over with his foot. It's been scalped. Several fingers have been cut off.   
  
"Shit," Duke says, "somebody already got all the good stuff."   
  
Ray stares at him in disgust. The  _good_  stuff? What, is Dukeman Captain America's grandpa? Who the fuck wants souvenirs of dead people? It's fucking sick. Ray's the polar opposite of prudish, but when it comes to mutilating dead bodies, he tends to draw the line.   
  
They meet up with a little guy named Perconte who's got a wrist full of pilfered watches, and a guy named Hoobler who has a serious hard-on for a Luger. The way Hoobler goes on about it, you'd think a fucking Luger cures cancer. And, of course, most of these guys know Ray. They yack at him like they've all been BFFs since junior high. Fuckers.   
  
Morning turns into afternoon. Hoobler has a compass. Ray checks it periodically to make sure they're on course. Or what he  _thinks_  the course should be. Ray doesn't say much. There's nothing to say. If Ray's in charge, he'll keep his eyes peeled, watch for signs of movement, for snipers. There's nothing. So far, so good. Eventually, Ray pauses to duck behind a tree and take a leak. The last time he pissed he wrote USA into the sand. When was that? Yesterday morning? An hour ago? A lifetime? Ray zips back up, starts moving again.   
  
Skip's finally taken the hint. He's gone silent himself. He looks at Ray from time to time, forehead creased, one hand playing with a rosary hanging from his pocket. Great. Ray's stuck with a bunch of Virgin worshippers.   
  
Ray's half listening to Dukeman and Perconte discuss the whereabouts of a Lieutenant Meehan when he spots movement. There, in a copse of trees about a hundred yards away. Ray holds up a hand in warning. Everyone stops, waits for orders. From the corner of his eye, Ray can see Dukeman bring up his pistol, Perconte lifts his rifle.   
  
Ray's got his M-1 up, he squints along the sight. He can feel every bead of sweat on his body. There's a mosquito on his arm. He ignores it.   
  
More movement. Ray stares, lowers his rifle. It's a fucking cow.   
  
"Jesus Christ," Ray mutters, irritated. Good thing Trombley's not here; he'd have killed it twice by now.   
  
"Let's shoot it," DeLacey says. "I'm hungry."   
  
Well look at that. Apparently Trombley  _is_  here.   
  
"No," Ray snaps. "We continue to our objective."   
  
"I was only kidding," Jim mutters.   
  
Ray's watch is gone like everything else. He has to keep asking Perconte what time it is. Frank grins, throws Ray a watch with a blood-stained wristband. "Don't say I never gave ya nothin,' pal."   
  
Okay, first of all, Frank's not his "pal." And secondly, Ray hadn't planned on ever saying something that retarded. But he straps the watch on anyway. What the fuck. It's all a goddamn dream. What does it matter if he wears a dead guy's watch?   
  
It's easy to tell when they near St. Come du Mont. There are bodies everywhere. Ray's never seen anything like it. In movies maybe, but this? This is horrific. He's been through two wars, seen a lot of death. But never anything on this scale.   
  
"Fuck me," Skip breathes. "Do you believe this?" He pulls a tightly-rolled t-shirt from one of his trouser pockets, holds it over his nose. "See? What did I tell you?"   
  
There must be hundreds of dead soldiers strewn across the road. Germans and Americans alike lie bloating in the afternoon heat. The smell is overwhelming. Atrocious. It crawls into Ray's nose, his mouth, his throat.   
  
Perconte whistles. "Jesus Christ."   
  
"How the fuck are we supposed to get through this?" Duke demands. He looks pale, sweaty. Ray guesses William won't be checking for souvenirs here.   
  
Hoobler shrugs. "We walk over them."   
  
"Fuck that," Delacey says. "We go around."   
  
"I been walkin' for eighteen fuckin' hours," Frank complains. "I'm hot, I'm thirsty, and I am  _not_  goin' around. I say we take the shortest route, not easiest one." He looks to Ray. "What do ya say, Sarge?"   
  
Ray doesn't want to say anything. He wants to wake up now, thanks. He wants to make fun of Trombley and annoy Brad and talk about stupid shit with Reporter. He wants his shitty Humvee. He wants to spend fifteen minutes with his paper girlfriend  _Jasmine._  He wants a fucking can of Beefaroni and a strawberry shake.   
  
Instead, he's got a bunch of random guys looking to him for guidance. Brad should be here telling them what to do, not Ray. Deciding to walk over a bunch of dead guys like goddamn stepping stones, or taking the long way around is fucking retarded, homes.   
  
But Ray figures the fastest way  _is_  best. Get to the motherfucking rally point. Maybe then Ray can finally wake up, go home, level up, whatever the fuck is next.   
  
"Let's go," Ray says, and he starts walking. Black clouds of flies buzz around his head, angry at the disturbance. Ray doesn't think about what he's doing. He keeps his eyes on the far side of the road, on the trees, the little houses. They're close, so this is no big deal. Ray silently recites his new mantra as he steps carefully from body to body.  _Dicksuck cockfuck, fuckstick._   
  
When he steps onto solid ground, Ray is relieved. He did it. He turns, checks on the guys. Everybody's here. Nobody fell face-first into a pile of maggots, nobody hacked up last night's dinner. Screwby. In less than five minutes they're in the city proper.   
  
St. Come du Mont is full of paratroops and bombed buildings. It's filled with old French women and little boys who watch the soldiers with the same dead expression Ray's seen in Afghanistan and Iraq a thousand times. It's filled with the dead and dying. Soldiers with red crosses on their arms carry stretchers, oblivious to tanks, to the thud of distant shelling, to the able-bodied men around them. Ray stares at them, throat dry. These are medics, not corpsmen. His boot squelches in something, he looks down. The dirt roads have turned to red mud. Ray steps over a puddle of blood. Christ. This is unbelievable.   
  
DeLacey joins up with a group of 82nd Airborne on their way to Vierville. While the 82nd heads out, more Easy Company guys trickle in. There's a sign next to a makeshift aid station that reads  _101st / 506th PIR / Easy Compay._  The paratroops greet Ray like a long lost pal. Ray doles out a few half-assed nods and pretends he knows who the fuck they are.   
  
The only guy Ray's interested in is the dark haired smiley one with the fifty pound radio strapped to his back. The sight of the radio makes Ray's gut twist with loss. He's not homesick exactly, just Marine-sick. He never thought there'd be a day he'd actually miss working on fucked up comms.   
  
The radio guy's name is George Luz. It's easy to learn his name since everyone yells _Hey Luz_  or  _George_  every ten seconds. Skip and Hoobler bug him constantly to mimic this or that officer. Luz plays along gamely, and he's fucking good. Not that Ray has any idea if the imitations are accurate, but the guy can definitely change his voice. He's quick too. Sarcastic. Funny. A little impatient. He smokes like a fucking chimney. In other words, he's Ray's kind of guy.   
  
Luz is sitting on an upside down ammo crate, laughing it up with Perconte. The two of them seem to be pretty close. Ray flips a crate over, sits behind Luz so he can get a closer look at the radio.   
  
George glances over his shoulder, cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. "Ray, how many times I gotta tell you? Stop checking out my goddamn ass."   
  
"I keep trying, but it's fucking hard to resist," Ray says. He doesn't intend to play along, but it's hard not to be a smartass. It's Ray's default setting.   
  
Perconte and Luz burst into laughter. Luz offers Ray a cigarette.   
  
"Thanks," Ray says. He turns away to light it, unable to meet Luz's gaze. He has to tell jokes. It's either that, or cry.   
  
***   
  
There's a water pump and everybody refills their canteens. Some guy named Bull sticks his head under the water, drinks right from the pump.   
  
Ray sits on the sidewalk outside the aid station, watching. He keeps searching for signs of Brad or Poke. Or hell, J-Lo. Random people are always popping up in dreams, right?   
  
Although if Ray wants to be honest, this stopped feeling like a dream quite some time ago. This is a fucking nightmare.   
  
He pushes up the sleeve of his jacket, pinches his arm. Yup, that hurts. But he's still sitting here on a cracked sidewalk while somebody shrieks inside the aid station and the Easy Company guys show off their creepy-ass souvenirs like it's Christmas morning.   
  
Ray slaps himself. Hard. Like the time his mom's ex caught Ray using his weights.   
  
Nothing.   
  
He's getting pissed now. Only the anger feels suspiciously like panic.   
  
Ray smacks his head against the stone building behind him. Tears spring to his eyes. _Fuck_ , that hurt. He puts his hand to the back of his throbbing head. There's no blood.   
  
Huh. That's something. Ray can't remember ever bleeding in a dream. Sure, other people have, take DeLacey's friend for instance. But not him. And he can't remember feeling pain while dreaming until today. He's been in pain ever since he fucked his ankle while landing. And now, thanks to his retarded experiment, his head hurts.   
  
Ray regulates his breathing, tries to box the panic up, store it in some dusty corner of his brain. He can find a way out of this. He pulls the knife out of his boot. Duke called it a jump knife. Skip called it trench knife. Ray doesn't care what kind of knife it is as long as it's fucking sharp.   
  
He grits his teeth and drags the knife along the top of his left hand. His skin springs apart, an instant ribbon of blood forms, so dark it's almost black. A fat red drop rolls off his hand, lands on his boot. His hand burns. It bleeds.    
  
He's still here.   
  
The stink of the dead, of his own sweat-soaked body makes Ray feel dizzy. He closes his eyes, bows his head. His stomach growls. Can you feel hungry in a dream?   
  
There's a soft voice to his right, an accent he can't place.   
  
"Sergeant Person? What're you doing?"   
  
Ray lifts his head. One of the medics is looking down at him, arms folded, one eyebrow raised. The medic has blue-black hair, and dark eyes that pin Ray in place like fucking laser beams.   
  
Ray's answer is automatic. "Nothing,"   
  
"Is that right? Looks to me like you just cut yourself."   
  
Ray has no idea who this guy is, and frankly, he doesn't care. He's past caring. He got to the rendezvous point and he's still Ray Henry Person. He wonders what would happen if he brought his rifle up and shot this medic in the face. If he managed to shoot himself in the face. Would he finally wake up? Don't they say you can't die in your own dreams?   
  
Ray shrugs, shakes the blood off his hand. "I was trying to wake up. I don't belong here."   
  
The doc's face softens. "A lot of guys think they don't belong here."   
  
Ray pushes himself to his feet, leans the M-1 against the wall. "No," he says. "I _literally_  don't belong here. In this century. I'm supposed to be in 2003. I'm a fucking  _Marine,_  yo. I'm in a completely different war. World War Two? This shit is over, dude. Everybody knows the allies kick ass. Hitler's a fucking psycho and kills himself." Ray throws his hands up. Blood drips down his wrist. "Spoiler alert, Doc: we win. So what the fuck am I doing here?"   
  
Doc pulls a pen light from his pocket, checks Ray's pupils. "Ray, did you hit your head when you landed? You have any blackouts?"   
en"No, I hit my head in Baghdad when a fucking bomb blew up." Ray says bitterly. He sighs. "But I did twist my ankle when I landed."   
  
"Uh huh. How about blurry vision? You feel disoriented?"   
  
"Fuck yeah, I'm disoriented," Ray snaps. "I'm not supposed to be here. How many times do I have to fucking tell you? I'm with Bravo Company, First Recon Marines. All I want is Brad or Walt, or fuck, I'd take Reporter. Hell, I'm so fucking desperate I'd be happy to see that asshole Trombley."   
  
Doc motions Ray into the aid station. "Come here."   
  
He guides Ray to an empty cot, sits him down.   
  
"Hey Eugene!" somebody calls from the other side of the room.   
  
"Gimme a second," Eugene calls back.   
  
The medic lifts off Ray's helmet and Ray has a perfect view of Gene's dog tags. _EUGENE G ROE_ . So. This is Skip's Doc. Roe plucks a picture out of the helmet lining. He holds it up to Ray. It shows a young man and woman, both smiling, holding hands. The girl is obviously younger, still in high school maybe. Instead of looking at the camera, she's smiling up at her boyfriend.   
  
It's a picture Ray's seen a thousand times before. It sat on his grandmother's china cabinet for years.   
  
"Your name is Ray Person." Roe points to a chipped mirror beside the cot. " _You_  are Ray Person."   
  
Ray studies himself in the mirror. He stares, stunned. He's looking at himself, but not. He has the same dark hair, the same eyes, the same mouth. But the nose is a little different, there's a small scar on his chin. He opens his mouth, discovers his teeth have never been introduced to orthodontia.   
  
Ray shakes his head. "No." He turns the mirror face down. "This isn't real."   
  
Doc Roe rubs his neck, regards Ray with sympathy. "Look. Why don't you lie down a while, get a few hours of rest. Stay off your ankle. We'll see how you feel when you wake up."   
  
Ray looks at a cot. Fucking-A. That is an excellent idea. He'll go to sleep and when he wakes up, he'll be back where he belongs.


	2. Chapter 2

_American parachutists - devils in baggy pants - are less than 100  
meters from my outpost line. I can't sleep at night: they pop up from  
nowhere and we never know when or how they will strike next. Seems  
like the black-hearted devils are everywhere._   
~ Excerpt from German soldier's diary   
  
  
  
  
"You're gonna wake him up."   
  
"No I'm not."   
  
Ray opens his eyes.   
  
Skip shoots a glare at the red-haired baby-faced kid across from him. "What'd I tell you, Malark?"   
  
Malark looks sheepish. He hands a cigarette to Skip. "Sorry," he says contritely.   
  
Ray ignores both of them.   
  
He's still here.   
  
He's still fucking  _here._   
  
Skip takes a drag, hands the smoke back to Malark.   
  
"Rip Van Winkle awakes," Muck says cheerfully. "Doc says you hit your head and you don't know who you are."   
  
Malark nods, exhales smoke toward the ceiling. "Just like in the movies."   
  
"Exactly," Skip says. "You shoulda heard this guy last night. He didn't recognize me or Dukeman."   
  
Malark frowns, dubious. "Is this more of your bullshit, Ray? Come on, you can tell us." Malark tips his head toward Skip. "We won't tell."   
  
All at once Ray's exhausted. He just woke up, but he feels like he hasn't slept in weeks. He's tired and scared. He's never felt so alone in his life. And that's including the times he had the shit beat out of him in high school.   
  
"Hey," Ray says quietly. "Could you guys just leave me alone for a while?"   
  
Ray covers his face with one arm, but he can still see the look of genuine worry on Skip's face, the surprise on Malark's. Skip pats Ray's arm. "Sure, Pers. We'll, uh, check on you later."   
  
Ray closes his eyes, listens to them go. There's a guy crying a few cots away. Softly. Inconsolably. Ray knows the feeling.   
  
If this isn't a dream, then what is it? Did he just blink out of existence in Iraq? Is his grandfather walking around in  _his_  body? Worse, is his grandpa still stuck in his head somewhere  _with_  him? Ray pulls at his jacket, his t-shirt, looks at his chest. His  _No Dice_  tattoo is gone. So it's a good bet the rest of them are too. If this isn't his body, why does it fucking feel like it is?   
  
Christ, this is like that Mark Twain book. Only Ray's not a Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court, he's a Missouri Hick in Saving Private Ryan's.   
  
If he had to go back in time, why couldn't it be to someplace with chicks in bikinis? And why couldn't he stay a fucking Marine? Then again, maybe it's better he's not at Guadalcanal or Peleliu, that shit was brutal. But what happens if Ray dies? Obviously Grandpa Ray lived through the war, but everything's different now. What if there's some kind of weird Butterfly Effect shit going on? If Ray is killed now, does that mean his mother will never be born and then Ray will blink out of existence?   
  
How the fuck is  _this_  his life? Christ, he can't survive in the fucking 1940s, rock and roll hasn't even been invented yet. Maybe what he needs is to get blown up again. Or punched in the face by someone other than himself. And maybe--hopefully--that will reverse the bullshit time space continuum back to its correct setting or whatever.   
  
"Spina, over here."   
  
Ray moves his arm, watches Doc and Spina carry in a wounded soldier. A second paratrooper, his face swathed in bandages stumbles in after them, supporting a man with a bloody leg.   
  
Ray rolls off the cot. He might be fucked, but he can still walk. He's not going to use a bed when somebody who's actually hurt needs it. He goes outside. The sky is pink with twilight. A firefly circles Ray's head, flies away.   
  
There are more Easy Company guys now. A bunch of them are gathered around the World War One memorial statue in the middle of the square. A Jewish guy's showing off a Nazi flag. A dark-haired guy with a square jaw has a Philly accent thick enough to break over Ray's knee. He's talking to Luz. Luz calls the guy Gonorrhea. What a retarded nickname. Maybe if he's lucky, Gonorrhea can graduate to Syphilis by the end of the war.   
  
Gonorrhea catches Ray watching him, flashes Ray a brilliant smile. He walks over to Ray, punches him in the arm.    
  
“Hey Percy, you miss your ol' pal Bill?" Bill lowers his voice, grins. "Get any of that French pussy yet?"   
  
Ray blinks. He didn't know guys in the 1940s said pussy unless they were referring to actual cats. Maybe Ray  _has_  misjudged his old pal Bill.   
  
Bill slaps Ray's back, winks. "I'll see ya when I see ya."   
  
Ray makes his way over to the monument, sits on the bottom step. He watches a blond kid with sad blue eyes make his way toward the statue. He looks confused, lost, a little like Walt after he killed the civilians at the road block. He looks as confused as Ray feels.   
  
Skip and Malark are sitting on the front of a jeep, laughing. Ray wonders if should go ask Skip or Roe for help with the names, or just wing it. Which is worse? Having them think he's crazy, or opening his mouth and proving it?   
  
Ray sighs, stabs his fingers through his hair. He rubs his ankle through his boot. It's still sore, but not as bad. Or maybe Ray's just used to the pain. Christ, he's Recon, he should quit whining and do some fucking reconnaissance already. Ray lights one of his Lucky Strikes, smokes while he wanders the square. He listens, working his way methodically through the crowd and his pack of cigarettes simultaneously.   
  
After ten minutes he knows the Jew with the hard eyes and slick smile is Joe Liebgott. The grim-faced tough guy is Joe Toye, the sad-eyed blond is Albert Blithe, and Skip Muck's girlfriend is Faye Tanner. Apparently they've been dating since they were both embryos. Ray knows Bill's nickname is a joke on his last name, Guarnere, and his brother got killed in Italy. He knows some guy named Nixon drinks on the job, and everybody's afraid of a Dog Company guy named Speirs. Oh, and Dick Winters is a cross between Jesus and a fucking ninja.   
  
Ray returns to the statue, satisfied with his progress. He sits beside Blithe. Blithe is staring up at the sky, like there's a fucking message hidden in the clouds.   
  
"You okay?" Ray asks.   
  
Blithe jumps, blinks at Ray. "I guess so," he says softly. He doesn't sound very convincing. "How about you?"   
  
Ray stubs out his cigarette. "Never better."   
  
One of the guys who walked up with Blithe has a German poncho. He keeps going on and on about it, like it's a fucking invisibility cloak. Perconte and Luz  _ooh_  and  _aah_ like the thing's got tits.   
  
Dukeman sits on Blithe's other side. "How was your jump?"   
  
Blithe shrugs. "Well, I missed the DZ."   
  
Perconte strolls over, rolls his eyes. "Yeah, that goes without saying." He sits on the step beside Ray.   
  
"I guess so," Blithe says listlessly.   
  
Ray lights a fresh smoke, looks at Blithe. The kid sounds like he's doped up. Or in shock.   
  
Perconte leans forward so he can see Albert. "Got any souvenirs to trade?" He pushes up his sleeve, shows off his watches. "They're all ticking." He grins. "Unlike their previous owners. Got anything good?"   
  
Ray instinctively pulls his own sleeve lower, covers his watch.   
  
Blithe shakes his head. "Not yet." He turns to Ray. "So, have we lost anybody?"   
  
_Just me_  Ray thinks. Christ, he has no fucking idea how to answer Blithe's question.   
  
Luckily, Dukeman does. "Tommy Burgess took one in the face. Popeye Wynn got pinked in the behind. They're gonna be okay."   
  
"That's good," Blithe murmurs.   
  
"You run into Lieutenant Meehan on you travels?" Perconte asks.   
  
Blithe frowns. "No. Why?"   
  
Perconte shrugs. "Company HQ's still missing. They think the plane went down."   
  
"They say he's gonna turn up," Duke says.   
  
Frank waves a hand. "Yeah, I ain't holding my breath."   
  
Ray exhales smoke. He thinks of Lieutenant Fick, how fucked Bravo would be without him. Of course half of Bravo thinks they're fucked  _with_  him. Fucking retards.   
  
"Who's in command now?" Blithe wants to know.   
  
"Winters for now. Lieutenant Welsh is First Platoon."   
  
Welsh appears, as if on cue. Ray knows it's Welsh because Blithe blinks and mutters _Welsh_ , like he's surprised to see the lieutenant after just talking about him. Or maybe Albert's just surprised to find himself here, still alive.   
  
Ray scrutinizes Welsh. He's a little dude with blond curly hair, gappy front teeth and a wry smile. He claps his hands a few times, garners the mens' attention.   
  
"Let's go! First Platoon! Easy's moving out. On your feet!"   
  
Dukeman stands, slings a newly acquired rifle over his shoulder. "Here we go."   
  
Hoobler, Duke, Perconte, German Poncho Guy, Blithe, they all move forward. Ray watches them blend into a crowd of Paratroopers around Welsh. Shit. Is Ray first platoon? Does it even matter where he goes?   
  
Luz nods at Ray, jerks his thumb toward Welsh. "Come on, ya slow poke."   
  
Ray stands, follows Luz and his radio.   
  
"Listen up!" Welsh yells. "It'll be dark soon. I want light and noise discipline from here on. No talking, no smoking and--" Welsh smirks at George "--no playing grab-fanny with the man in front of you, Luz."   
  
A few of the men laugh--including Luz. Grab-fanny? What the hell is  _that_  about?   
  
"So where are we headed to, lieutenant?" Hoobler asks.   
  
Welsh adjusts his helmet. "We're taking Carentan."   
  
Perconte elbows Ray, eyes bright, excited. "Sounds like fun, huh?"   
  
Ray finds himself wanting to punch Frank in the fucking face. He slides his hands into his pockets in an effort to keep the peace. He's given up trying to figure out of this shit is real or not. Whatever it is, he's still in the Military, and he's not willing to risk a court martial just for beating Perconte's head in. Not yet, anyway.   
  
"It's the only place where armor from Omaha and Utah Beach can link up and head inland," Welsh explains. "Until we take Carentan, they're stuck on the sand. General Taylor's sending the whole division."   
  
They move out, soldiers falling into line.   
  
Luz grins, does some kind of imitation. "Remember boys," he says in a deep, drawling voice, eyes rolling, "give me three days and three nights of hard fighting, and you  _will_  be relieved."   
  
Laughter ripples through the crowd.   
  
Luz continues his impersonation. "Another thing to remember, boys: flies spread disease; so keep yours  _closed_ ."   
  
More laughter.   
  
Ray keeps in step with George. Luz knows how to make his fellow trooopers laugh, when it's fun to goof around, and when it's necessary. Luz uses humor as a tool, as a way to diffuse the tension and worry over a new mission. He gives the men a chance to laugh at the NCOs, themselves, their uncertainty. He uses laughter to keep the men grounded, together. What's more, Luz seems to do it effortlessly. Welsh might be lieutenant, but Ray can already tell Luz is the one holding first platoon together. Ray knows a thing or two about boosting morale.    
  
At least he used to.   
  
* * *   
  
They walk for six hours.   
  
Easy Company first, second and third platoons follow Fox Company. They pass countless bodies, providing Perconte the opportunity to steal more watches. There's a lot of waiting. Fox Company constantly leaves Easy in the dust, which also means there's a lot of bitching. Scouts are sent forward to locate F Company and tell them to wait. F Company bitches about how slow Easy is, and everyone's in a fucking bad mood. Ray especially. It starts to rain. A thin, needling rain that works its way through Ray's uniform, his socks, his boots, makes him forget what it’s like to feel dry.   
  
They walk through flooded fields in water up to their shins, through a forest filled with dead German troopers, the famed  _Fallschirmjager_ . They pass a swamp filled with the wreckage of a smoldering plane. A pale hand floats along the green, stinking surface like a grotesque lily pad. When night falls, the sky to the east is tinted copper from the flames of a burning town. The rain tapers off, and swarms of mosquitoes follow the men like personal shadows.   
  
Periodically, a tall red-haired guy moves through the ranks checking on Easy Company men. It doesn't take Ray long to figure out this is Dick Winters. Winters exudes patience, strength, competence. He pats Luz's arm, smiles at Ray and says _Hang tough_ . He listens to the men, speaks encouragingly, he even shares his fucking water. Shit, he  _is_  Jesus. Ray doesn't understand how someone saddled with the name "Dick" can be so fucking calm. Winters reminds Ray of a combination of Brad and Fick. Looks like Easy Company has their own Iceman.   
  
Liebgott and a dude named Alley walk behind Ray; he listens to Liebgott babble about how Winters basically took down three 105 mm guns by himself at someplace called Brecourt Manor. Oh, and he saved Joe Toye's life  _and_  found some kind of Nazi plans that have General Taylor drawing hearts around Dick's name.    
  
By 0200 hours they dig in outside Carentan for a few hours' sleep. Ray borrows Skip's entrenching tool. The cut on his hand stings as he digs. He fucking  _hates_ digging ranger graves. Or in this case, fucking fox holes. Brad usually helps him. It's not that Ray can't dig a fucking hole, he just finds it boring. The ground is wet, and it takes forever to get a decent hole started.   
  
But then Dukeman is at his side, digging right along with him. "Why don't you take a load off," Duke says. "I'll finish."   
  
Ray stares at him.   
  
Duke stares back, shrugs, starts digging. "What? You know I usually dig. What is this, you feel bad for giving me a fucking heart attack the other night?" He jumps into the hole, raises his voice in an imitation of Ray that Luz would be ashamed of. "Who are you? I don't know where I fucking am. Is this D-Day? Where's my mom?" Dukeman shakes his head, chuckling. "Christ Pers, you're such an asshole sometimes."   
  
Ray ignores the urge to take off for the trees. To just run as far as he fucking can. As if he'll find Baghdad, his life, waiting around the next corner. Shit, he  _is_  an asshole. Duke's kindness is almost more than Ray can stand.   
  
Ray knows he won't sleep so he offers to take the first watch.   
  
"Thank God," Duke mutters, leans his head against the dirt wall, and closes his eyes.   
  
Ray squints into the darkness, listening. Fuck, he'd trade one of his kidneys for his piece of shit NVGs right about now. This is crazy. He's sitting in a fox hole, watching for Krauts. Okay, what's  _really_  crazy is he's started referring to Germans as fucking Krauts. Jesus Christ. He's never wanted to hear Brad insult his driving so badly in his life. Only he doesn't have Brad, he doesn't have a radio, he doesn't have any Ripped Fuel, and he doesn't have a fucking Humvee. What he  _does_  have, is a splitting headache.   
  
Everything is quiet. There's nothing but the sound of quiet snoring all around him. No gunfire, no footsteps, no whispers. Tonight there are no tracers to light the sky. Even the moon is gone, hiding behind a veil of clouds. The darkness is absolute.   
  
Ray shifts in the dirt. For the first time, sitting in a hole in the ground actually feels like a grave. Maybe he  _is_  dead. Maybe this is like that movie  _Jacob's Ladder._  Like he actually got schwacked by the bomb and he just doesn't know it yet. Except Ray really doesn't want to be dead. He was kind of hoping to go home and fuck Sadie a few million times. Tell her he loved her. See his mom. Visit Grandma Arlene's grave. Eat a fucking Klondike bar, for Christ's sake.   
  
Still, it's not like he wants to be here either. If he is dead, he might as well get this shit over with. Like the old cadence march says, Ray's already done his time in hell. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath.  _I'm dead,_  he thinks.  _I'm fucking dead._  His eyes fill with tears, which is fucking pathetic, but shit. He doesn't know what to  _do._   
  
When Dukeman wakes up, Ray's eyes are dry. He lets Duke give him a hand out of the foxhole, but Ray has no idea if he's actually alive or not. His heart is still beating, he can feel his pulse. But he feels disconnected, cut off, alone. This body isn't his, it's just something he's forced to drag around, one more thing to carry across the goddamn countryside along with his rifle, helmet, canteen.   
  
* * *   
  
Ray might not know why--or if--he's really here, but there's one thing he does know: how to take orders. Especially orders that aren't fucking retarded. And Winters' orders are not retarded. From what Ray can tell, none of the guys in Easy Company are even close to Encino Man's level of retardation. Some of them are annoying as hell, but they still know how to use a substantial portion of their brains. There's not a hysterical Captain American in the bunch.   
  
Winters leads the attack on Carentan. The city is occupied by Fallschirmjager; Easy Company's job is to get them the hell out.   
  
Welsh and Luz are in the lead. They cross the road into the city, and are immediately pinned down by machine gun fire. They dive behind a shed.   
  
"Incoming!" Winters shouts.   
  
Everyone drops into the ditches flanking the road. Ray glances up, helmet low on his head. Fuck this. He's not gonna be a goddamn sitting duck. lf he's about to die in some fucked up parallel universe he's going to take as many Krauts, Hajis, or whoever the fuck he happens to be fighting with him.   
  
Winters is running up and down the road, screaming at the men to get off their fucking faces. Ray's the first one up. Bullets snap around him, they sound like stones against a windshield. Welsh ducks down, tosses a grenade right through the window at the machine gun operator while he reloads. Now  _that_ ? Is pretty fucking ninja.   
  
Ray moves quickly toward the intersection straight ahead. He's going to fucking  _get some._  Hoobler, Luz, Liebgott and Alley are at the far end of the cross street making house-to-house sweeps. Ray's with Skip and Malarkey at the other end, picking off Krauts holed up in an empty pharmacy. There's a kid named Shifty picking off snipers through the windows of a factory like he's spent every minute of his life up until now playing  _Call of Duty._  It's fucking amazing.   
  
A sergeant named Carwood Lipton yells a warning for everyone to get off the street. The Kraut's have 88s zeroed in on them. Skip and Malarkey take off, dodging bullets, toward a gutted church. Dukeman's caught up to Ray, they walk down the street together, not too fast, not too slow. Careful. There's a listing piano sitting in the middle of the next street, as if someone wanted to remind the world people lived here once, worked here, played here. As if the piano might have the power to stop what's coming.   
  
It doesn't.   
  
A shell falls. A third platoon trooper Ray doesn't know gets his leg blown off. Bull picks him up, tosses him over his shoulder and gets the fuck out of there. Another shell hits, sends Lipton flying across the street and into a wall. The air is thick with dust and dirt. And screams.   
  
Ray catches sight of a rifle barrel poking through a second story window. It's pointing at the head of a priest who's giving last rights to dying soldiers--German and American both. Ray's no fan of religion, but he's not about to let an unarmed man get shot, even if he is a Catholic. Especially a badass priest who's out in the shit with the rest of them. Ray aims, fires. The rifle jerks out of view. The priest walks on, oblivious.   
  
"Mortars!" Skip yells.   
  
A glass window shatters in front of Ray. He bows his head, covers his face. Glass bites into his skin, bounces off his helmet. There's another whistle overhead and Ray finds himself flipping head over ass. He smashes into the ground. The world goes gray around him, fades out like the end of song. He turns his head, blinks. Debris rains down on him.   
  
"Shit! Ray!  _Ray_ !" Muck calls.   
  
Skip and Malark run over, drag Ray out of the street, lean him against a building.   
  
Bill's face appears at a window across the street. "Skip! Don! I fuckin' need ya! Get your asses up here!"   
  
"Fuck," Don whispers. "Ray? Are you all right?"   
  
Ray waves them away. "I'm fucking great. Get out of here."   
  
Skip puts a hand on his helmet. "Shit."   
  
"I got him," Dukeman says, jogging up behind them. "Go."   
  
Skip and Don take off.   
  
Will kneels beside Ray, looks him over. "Everything still connected?"   
  
Ray shakes his head in an attempt to stop the ringing in his ears. "The important parts."   
  
There's a chunk of shrapnel sticking out of his left arm. It doesn't hurt--yet, but it looks fucking disgusting. Ray kind of wishes Brad could see it. Ray pulls off his helmet, looks at it. Another piece of shrapnel is lodged in the top. Ray flips the helmet over, sees where the jagged edge of metal nearly hit his head. His hand is shaking when he checks the photo of his grandparents. It's still there, intact.   
  
"Holy fuck," Ray mutters. He pats himself down. The rest of him seems to be okay. He's got a few cuts from flying glass, but nothing's been lopped off, thank Christ.   
  
There's another explosion, this time on the next street over. A voice that sounds like Guarnere's yells  _Die you fuckin' bastards_ !   
  
There's a figure curled against the wall about two hundred yards away. Ray recognizes the pale blond hair, despite the dust and soot that darken it. It's Blithe.   
  
"Albert?" Ray calls. "What's wrong?" He pushes himself to his feet, uses Duke's shoulder for support.   
  
"I can't see," Blithe calls back, his voice high and terrified. "I can't  _see_ ."   
  
Ray grabs Albert, pulls him up. "I got you. Come on, put your arm around my neck." Ray guides Blithe down the street as best he can. Once, Ray trips and almost pulls Blithe down with him. Dukeman reaches out, grabs Ray's arm.   
  
"Jesus Christ," Duke says with a nervous laugh. "You got him and I got you."    
  
Most of the gunfire has stopped. So has the shelling. A glimpse between two buildings shows Ray a narrow rectangle of the field beyond the city. It's strewn with dead Germans.   
  
Roe and Spina are working on turning an abandoned restaurant into an aid station. Lipton's already inside, so is the guy with the missing leg. Ray can just glimpse a third patient crying, holding a hand to his face. Doc Spina is talking to him, trying to pull the guy's hand away.   
  
"Okay," Roe says, tying a tag to Lipton's shoe. "You, Johnson, and Tipper are gonna be evacuated as soon as we can get you out."   
  
"I'm fine," Lipton says, trying to pull the tag back off.   
  
Roe slaps Lipton's hand away. "No, you are  _not_ . You lost a lot of blood, you need surgery which I can't do, and you nearly had your balls blown off. Now I don't know about you, but that ain't my definition of fine." Roe puts a hand on Lipton's chest, gently pushes him back down. "Now you lie here like a good patient and let me do my goddamn job."   
  
"Yes, sir," Carwood says meekly.   
  
Doc Roe nods. "That's better. How's the pain? You want morphine?"   
  
Lipton shakes his head. "Nah," he says, a smile ghosting over his face, "but I'll take a pretty nurse if you have one."   
  
"Lip," Roe says, crossing his arms, "if I had a pretty nurse here, you think I'd waste my time talking to you?"   
  
This earns Doc a chuckle. Roe pats Lip's hand, turns to see Ray and Blithe. Doc's gaze shifts to Ray's arm. "That don't look too good."   
  
"I'll see you guys," Duke mumbles, and ducks back outside.   
  
"That," Doc muses, "is one nasty piece of shrapnel."   
  
Ray shows Roe his helmet. "Not as nasty as this."   
  
"Shit," Eugene says, staring. "You came awful close to losing your brains today, Ray."   
  
Ray waves Roe's concern off. "Fuck that Doc, I lost my brains a long-ass time ago." Like when he joined the Marines. Or when he landed here.   
  
Roe grins, notices Blithe. "Hey Alby. You okay?"   
  
Albert twists his hands together, blinks. Tears leak from his eyes. "I--I can't see," he says.   
  
Roe points Ray toward a table covered in blood. "Hop right up there."   
  
Ray looks at the blood stained table dubiously, then shrugs. Whatever. He hops up, watches Doc guide Albert to a chair.   
  
Roe crouches in front of Alby, shines a light in his eyes. Albert doesn't flinch, doesn't blink, nothing. He continues wringing his hands.   
  
"You--you there, Doc?" Blithe asks nervously.   
  
"I'm here," Roe soothes. "Everything's gonna be okay."   
  
* * *   
  
Ray's on the table, clenching his teeth and sweating. He's got his jacket half off. He can't get his other arm out because there's a piece of fucking shrapnel jammed through it.   
  
"You ready?" Doc asks.   
  
Ray lifts an eyebrow, hopeful. "You got anything to drink?"   
  
Doc points serenely at Ray's canteen. "Right there."   
  
Person sighs. Fuck it. "Just do it," he says grimly.   
  
Roe nods, frowns, and deftly pulls the metal out of Ray's arm.   
  
" _Shit_ ," Ray hisses. "Fuck me, that hurt."   
  
"Just wait'll I stitch you up," Doc says, pressing a bandage roll to Ray's arm.   
  
"Eugene?"   
  
Doc and Ray both turn to see Lieutenant Winters leaning in the doorway. His face is drawn, his mouth a tight line. "You got a second to look at my leg?"   
  
Eugene nods, pats the table next to Ray. He points Person to the chair Albert was sitting in earlier. "You sit there and wait. Keep the pressure on. I mean it, Ray. After I look at the LT, I'll get you stitched up and take a look at that ankle." Roe's dark eyebrows come together, he lowers his voice. "And we can talk about what you were tellin' me the other day."   
  
Ray slides off the table, heads for the chair. Great.   
  
Winters looks from Ray to Doc. "Oh, hey, I didn't mean to--"   
  
"I can wait," Ray says. He makes a show of looking at his watch. "I don't have a pressing appointment until later this afternoon."   
  
Dick's mouth curves into an almost-smile. "Thank you, Ray."   
  
Jesus. Winters always sounds so goddamn sincere, like he genuinely gives a shit. No wonder everybody thinks he walks on water.   
  
Now that Ray's out of the hot seat, he looks around the room. There are injured everywhere. The cots, the other tables, almost every surface is covered with a wounded man. Except for Blithe. Doc has Albert sitting in an adjoining room. There's a desk, like it was an office once. From his vantage point, Ray can just see the top of Albert's head.   
  
Roe's inspecting the lieutenant's leg, prodding at a bullet wound with a pair of tweezers.   
  
"There she is. You're lucky it was a ricochet. You just caught a piece of it."   
  
Winters shakes his head. "Stupid," he mutters.   
  
Roe looks up. "What?"   
  
Winters sighs. "Nothing." Then: "I should have been more careful."   
  
Doc extracts the bullet fragment, drops it into a bowl. "Now," he says, "you gonna be able to stay off it?"   
  
A big guy with hair so blond it's nearly white walks in. There's a word for that color, but Ray can't remember what it is. Oh wait, tow headed, that's what it's called. Ray doesn't give a shit what color Buck's hair is, he already dislikes Buck Compton intensely. Buck's a jock, he's always talking about fucking sports. If Buck had been born fifty years later, he'd probably be one of the guys who beat Ray up after school.   
  
Winters watches Buck approach, half smiles at Roe. "Doesn't look that way."   
  
Eugene gives the lieutenant a meaningful look. "Well, you gotta try, huh?"   
  
Buck strolls up, staring at Dick's leg but pretending not to. "What have we got planned, Chief?"   
  
"Well, we expect a counterattack. Carentan is as important to them as it is to us."   
  
Ray bows his head. Fuck. He stops listening, adjusts the pressure on the bandage. The pain throbs in time with his pulse. He got knocked around by a shell just like he did back home. And it didn't do shit but skewer his arm and fuck up his helmet. Whatever this is, he's stuck here. Everything he's seen, smelled, felt, touched, it's _real_ . And he can spend his time freaking the fuck out and being a useless head case, or he can suck it up and concentrate on the now. He'll worry about how to get back to his life when this whole Carentan situation is over. That's the best he can do.   
  
Ray tells himself he's not giving up. He's simply waiting. Ray's good at that. He's always been patient. Not to mention stubborn. High school sucked, but he knew it would end eventually. If he wanted to, he could beat the shit out of all the has-been motherfuckers who used to knock him around, call him names. Change is inevitable. It comes, implacably, inexorably, whether you want it or not. The only thing you can't predict is how long it'll take to reach you.   
  
Person's got himself a pretty decent reputation. He's a smartass who's actually smart. He's knows when to let his brains show, when to lay off the three syllable words to keep from confusing the fuck out of Chaffin or Dirty Earl. He knows when to make Brad laugh. He knows when Brad's pretending to be pissed and when he's about to really fucking lose it. Ray likes to bitch about command, but he can recognize a good leader when he sees one. Men like Brad and Fick, Welsh and Winters.   
  
When Ray went through his SERE training, he was put in a box roughly the size of a coffin for three days. The opposing team was trying to break him, get him to spill his fake "secret intel." What they didn't realize was, Ray didn't give a shit about being stuffed inside a metal box. He'd already spent a goodly portion of his formative years jammed into various lockers. He wasn't claustrophobic. He wasn't afraid of the dark. Ray spent most of his time sleeping, working on a new song for his band, and tapping out Metallica lyrics in Morse code. They let Ray out twice a day to piss, eat, drink, and get tied to a chair while a parade of retards yelled in his face, sprayed him with a fire hose, called him names.   
  
Ray never bothered to finish the song, but he did catch up on his sleep. By the time the exercise was over, Ray had a reputation for being a badass motherfucker, when all he really had was patience and a notable lack of caffeine. Still, it was nice to see Brad look at him that way, like he was proud. Even Rudy was impressed, and that fucking  _meant_  something.   
  
This might be France, and the calendar might say it's 1944, but this is all just another box. There might be a few more people inside it with him this time, but that's okay. It's nice to have company, especially when they aren't assholes. He can wait this out. He's not going to break. Sooner or later, he'll get out.   
  
Ray's attention snaps back to the present when Winters asks what's wrong with Blithe. Ray scratches his shoulder. Tiny shards of glass fall onto his knee, the floor. Christ, it's like evil fucking dandruff.   
  
Roe shrugs, frustration on his face. "Nothing's wrong. Except he can't see."   
  
Winters peers around Doc's head, studies Blithe. He looks back at Roe.   
  
"He can't see?"   
  
"So he says."   
  
Ray knows Blithe's blindness is probably psychosomatic. Ray's heard about guys going blind, seeing dead soldiers or civilians they've killed, guys going batshit from stress, from all the fucked up shit they've seen. But Ray's never known anyone personally who went nuts. Unless you count Captain America. Nobody wants to talk about the guys who can't cut it. It's not the kind of thing the military tends to put in their dumbass Marines-fuck-up-dragons-with-a-sword commercials.   
  
Ray watches Winters slide gingerly off the table. The lieutenant hobbles over to Alby, hunkers down in front of him. Person stands, watches the scene through the office window.   
  
"Blithe? It's Lieutenant Winters. What happened?" Dick asks gently.   
  
Ray leans against the dirty glass, keeps the bandage in place. Christ, Winters has a way of speaking that makes you  _want_  to talk to him. Ray finds himself wanting to bring Winters a drink of water or a candy bar for no fucking reason. No, that's a lie. Winters is taking the time to help an unlisted man most officers would ignore at best, label hysterical, or a shitbird at worst.   
  
"I don't know, sir. Well, things..." Blithe trails off, swallows. He swivels his head toward the sound of Dick's voice. Albert looks scared, ashamed, desperate. "They just kinda went black on me."   
  
Dick holds his hand in front of Blithe's face, waves it back and forth. "What, you can't see?"   
  
Blithe doesn't blink, doesn't move. "Not a thing sir, I can't see a thing." His face contorts, a tear spills from one eye. He sniffs, wipes his face.   
  
"Well, you just take it easy, Blithe," Winters says slowly. The lieutenant doesn't look pissed or annoyed. He just looks sad, contemplative, as if he's personally responsible for Alby's condition. "I'm gonna get you out of here. Get you back to England." He puts a hand on Blithe's soldier. "It's gonna be okay."   
  
Albert rubs his face, miserable. "Sir... I didn't wanna let anyone down."   
  
Ray looks away. Jesus. There's enough guilt in that room to fill five Catholic churches. Neither man deserves it. This whole thing is fucked. If something like this had happened to Walt, would he be treated with the same dignity, the same kindness? Not fucking likely.   
  
"No. Just take it easy. It's okay, son." Winters stands, starts back to the table.   
  
And that's the answer right there. Why everyone loves Winters. He's the father every kid wants, the big brother you want to impress. Every kid who lost their dad, watched him walk out or stood over a grave, grew up to find Dick Winters the perfect replacement. The fuck of it is, Dick can't be more than a few years older than Ray. But it's obvious Winters has the maturity, the finesse of a born leader. The kind of leader who considers giving orders an honor, a privilege, some kind of sacred duty and not a fucking power trip. Fick is damn good. Winters is better.   
  
Blithe lifts one hand, holds in in front of his face like a pale five-fingered flower. There's dirt beneath his fingernails, one of his knuckles is cracked and bleeding. He blinks, squints.    
  
"Sir?"   
  
Dick stops, turns back to Blithe. "Yeah?" His voice is all patience. "What is it?"   
  
Blithe pushes himself to his feet, sways, steadies himself. "Thank you, sir. I'm okay," he says wonderingly, his gaze moving to Winters. "Yeah, I'm okay. I'm okay..." He can't quite manage a smile, but he nods. "I think I'm okay."   
  
The lieutenant stares at Alby, hope and doubt at war on his face. "You can see?"   
  
"God, I don't know what happened," Blithe says, shaking his head like he's trying to clear it, literally shake the scales from his eyes. "I think--I think I'm okay."   
  
Winters and Roe exchange a look. "All right. Well, stay here a little while longer and make sure," the lieutenant tells him. "And then you can report back to your platoon."   
  
Blithe smiles like he's trying really, really hard. "Yes, sir."   
  
Roe bandages Winters' leg. Dick's BFF, the guy who carries a flask like a good luck charm stops by to check on his buddy. His name is Lewis Nixon, but Dick calls him Nix. It's obvious they're totally gay for each other. When Winters limps off with Nix, Roe returns his attention to Ray.   
  
He helps Ray out of his jacket, cleans the wound, stitches him up. It takes nine stitches to close the gash. Ray thinks about the scar on his chin, wonders how his grandpa hurt himself, if he got stitches and how many.   
  
"Okay," Doc says, applying a clean bandage, "That should do it." Roe tucks his scissors into his jacket front pocket, wipes his hands on a towel. "Don't forget to put your name in for a Purple Heart."   
  
Ray thinks Eugene is kidding. It takes him a second to realize the medic isn't. Christ, Ray's not doing that. But then, what if his grandfather did, what if he's taking away one of his medals? This is too fucking hard. Stay in the present. Fuck a Purple Heart. Q-Tip didn't get one when he got schwacked by shrapnel, why should Ray?   
  
Roe pulls up the chair, folds his arms, nods at Ray's foot. "How's the ankle?"   
  
Ray pushes thoughts of medals and Stafford out of his head. Fuck the future, fuck destiny.    
  
"Better." Ray rubs the worn leather. "But I'm afraid if I take my goddamn boot off to make sure I won't get the fucking thing back on."   
  
"How's your range of motion? Can you move it?"   
  
Person rotates his ankle.   
  
Roe watches. "How much did that hurt?"   
  
Ray shrugs. "It hurt, but not like it did. Not like my arm."   
  
"Okay. I think you've got a mild sprain. Stay off it as much as you can. Keep it elevated when you sleep. In another day come see me and we'll get that boot off."   
  
Ray pulls the shrapnel out of his helmet, tosses it into a garbage can. "Two points," he mutters. He can still feel Roe's eyes on him.   
  
"Feeling any better?"   
  
Person runs his fingers over the narrow cut in his helmet, back and forth, back and forth.   
  
"Less crazy you mean?"   
  
"Something like that."   
  
"I feel like I should probably check on Blithe," Ray says, hopping off the table. His ankle twinges, but that's all. "Can I go now?"   
  
"You want any aspirin?"   
  
What Ray wants, Roe isn't able to give him.   
  
"No thanks."   
  
Ray wanders outside, eyeing the bandage on his arm. Christ, this place would give Doc Bryan an aneurysm.   
  
Blithe is lying outside on the front stoop, watching the sky through splayed fingers. Skip and Malark are out here too, bitching about Kraut cheese. They're with two other soldiers, one of them's a mortar guy, the other one likes to steal stuff. Ray can't remember either of their names right now.   
  
They all wave at Ray.   
  
"How's the arm?" Skip asks.   
  
Ray moves it up and down. "Still attached."   
  
Babyface mortar guy holds up small loaf of bread. "Want some?"   
  
"No thanks."   
  
Ray looks down at Blithe, nudges his foot with his own. "How many fingers am I holding up?" He lifts his middle finger.   
  
Malarkey laughs.   
  
"Aww, leave him alone," Skip says, reaching for Skip's cigarette.   
  
A blush creeps up Blithe's face, but he smiles. "One."   
  
"I didn't mean anything by it, I'm just goofing around," Ray tells him.   
  
"I know," Blithe says, his voice tinged with annoyance.   
  
Ray grins. At least the kid can feel something besides fear.   
  
"You going to stay here?"   
  
Blithe nods, squinting at the sun. "Yeah. I just want to feel the sunlight a while longer."   
  
"Okay."   
  
Ray leaves, passes the infamous Lieutenant Speirs on the road. He walks past Guarnere, Liebgott and Johnny Martin. They're smoking, talking about somebody named Tip. He finds himself drawn back to the piano. It's still in the street. It's dustier, the wood riddled with bullet holes, the wood punctured by shrapnel. The last ten keys are missing, they litter the ground like broken teeth.   
  
Luz stands in front of it, poking dully at the remaining keys. The sounds he's making can't really be classified as music. George looks up at Ray's approach. He's got a cigarette dangling from his lower lip. He smiles around it, but the smile doesn't reach Luz's eyes.   
  
"Hey, Pers."   
  
"Hey yourself."   
  
Luz plunks another key. A single melancholy note fills the street.    
  
"I almost shot a family," George announces in a brittle voice. His usual good humor is gone.   
  
Ray removes his helmet, sets it on top of the piano. He doesn't say anything.   
  
"Hoobs and I were going door to door tossing grenades. And I just--I don't know. I knew something was different as soon as I kicked in the door." Luz plucks the cigarette from his lips, exhales smoke toward the sky, replaces it. "My finger was on the trigger, and my brain wanted to shoot them before my eyes could fucking see who they were. It was a mother, grandpa, and a fucking kid. A  _kid_ ."   
  
Luz slams his palm against the piano. An angry knot of sound echoes down the block. "We're s'posed to be here to help these people and I almost killed them."   
  
Ray closes his eyes. He can still see Rudy's face after he told them about the little girl who had half her head shot off at a roadblock. She'd been wearing a pink dress. He can still hear the sound of kids laughing while he makes his fucking retarded cookies, before the bomb blew them all to shit. It's like they never existed at all.   
  
Ray opens his eyes, turns to Luz. "The important word here, George, is  _almost_ . You didn't shoot those people. They're alive, you're alive, everything's fucking great."   
  
Luz snorts. "Yeah, right. You hear about Tipper?"   
  
Ray hasn't, he has no idea who Tipper is.    
  
"He got hit by a fucking mortar. Broke both his legs, fucked up his face. He's probably gonna be blind."   
  
Ray has an image of Blithe sitting in the aid station, eyes empty, tears on his face.   
  
"You never know," Ray says softly. "Maybe he'll be okay."   
  
"Yeah," Luz says, wearily, unconvinced. "Maybe." He wipes his face, sighs. "What about you? You've been acting off ever since we landed. What's going on?"   
  
Oh, where to begin. Apparently Ray's doing a shit job impersonating his grandfather. As the company mimic, it figures Luz would be the one to call Ray out.   
  
"Nothing."   
  
Luz sticks his hands in his pockets, watches Ray through a thin column of smoke. Luz looks dubious.   
  
Ray rubs his chin. "Aside from the fact everything's fucked up."   
  
It must be the right answer because Luz nods. "You said it. All of HQ's gone, Meehan's dead. We've still got guys missing, Tipper's probably fucked. I heard Salty got hit on the way down." Luz's voice breaks, he coughs to cover his distress. "All that running up and down Currahee feels a long way off, Ray. Christ, it seems like another lifetime."   
  
"You got that right," Ray says honestly, picking at a splinter of wood on the battered upright. Someone  _else's_  lifetime.   
  
Luz's head doesn't move, but his eyes slide toward Ray. "Just remember our fucking motto, pal. We might be alone, but we're alone together.  _Currahee_ ," he says again, like it means something.   
  
Ray doesn't have a goddamn clue what the fuck Luz is talking about. He doesn't know shit about mottos or what Currahee is. Is it a military base? A hill? An asshole NCO? Spicy Indian food? Ray considers asking, changes his mind. He's got a more important question.   
  
"How am I different?" Ray demands.   
  
Luz stares at him. "Huh?"   
  
"You said I was acting off or whatever. What the fuck does that mean?"   
  
Luz rolls his eyes, rubs his forehead. "Christ, I'm sorry I brought it up. All I meant is, you used to give me and the guys shit for swearing, Now you're cursing a blue streak through the whole goddamn company." Luz lifts his hands, placating. "I'm not saying it's bad, I'm just saying it's different."   
  
The words are out of Ray's mouth before he can stop them. "I have Tourette's."   
  
Luz lifts an eyebrow. "You have  _what_ ?"   
  
Jesus Christ, maybe he does, because he can't fucking stop himself. "It's like when you shout out random shit, mostly curse words." Ray clears his throat. "It, uh, comes and goes."   
  
"You're shitting me."   
  
Yes, totally, completely and absolutely. "No," Ray says, his face flushing. "It's a real thing. Stress can make it worse and this shit is a little stressful."   
  
Luz grins. "You think?"   
  
Ray is going to hell if he's not already there. He is such a fucking liar. But he doesn't want Luz and whoever else sitting around going  _Hey, did you notice Ray's acting like a fucking lunatic?_  Although there's a good chance they'll sit around and ask Doc what the hell Tourette's is instead. Brad's right. He  _really_  can't keep his mouth shut. It's a sickness. So maybe he does have a form of Tourette's after all.   
  
"My mom's gonna have a heart attack the first time I accidentally say 'fuck' when I get home," Luz laments. "I'm gonna have to work on that." He drops his cigarette, steps on it. " _Later_ ."   
  
Ray positions his hands over the remaining piano keys, closes his eyes, plays a few cautious notes. He pulls up his old sophomore solo ensemble piece. Beethoven's Piano Concerto No. 3 in C minor, Op. 37. He'll play it about fifty years from now. Jesus, that's crazy. He plays softly, a handful of fragile notes that float around them before drifting away.   
  
Luz smiles, impressed, good humor restored. "Hey, I didn't know you could play."   
  
Ray wonders if this is another fuckup on his part. If he's ruining something indefinable for his grandfather by playing Beethoven on a street littered with dead Krauts, in a city he couldn't find on a map. Maybe Grandpa Ray knew how to play piano. Maybe it doesn't matter.   
  
Ray shrugs, stops playing. "I'm full of surprises."


	3. Chapter 3

_Comrades known in marches many,  
Comrades, tried in dangers many,  
Comrades, bound by memories many,  
Brothers let us be. _   
~ Charles G. Halpine   
  
  
  
  
Ray's back in a foxhole with Dukeman. He's halfway through another long night of listening and waiting. The Germans are behind one hedgerow, the 506th first battalion is behind another. Ray can hear a few of the Krauts singing softly, smell coffee and what might be soup or stew. It's surreal to be this close to the enemy and do nothing but wait for morning.   
  
Person gnaws on something from his own ration kit. It looks like the great-grandfather of the granola bar and it tastes like shit. Ray never thought he'd miss Pop-Tarts, but he does. He misses everything. He misses his M-16. He misses decent toilet paper and handiwipes. He misses Kevlar and NVGs and Reporter's endless questions. He misses driving, the feel of the Humvee's steering wheel in his hands, the static-y sound of Fick's voice on comms.   
  
Dukeman's cradling his rifle like a long-lost girlfriend, eyes closed. Ray's considering waking Will, trying to get some sleep himself, when the screams start. They're distant, but they cut through the darkness like a razor. Person sits, eyes wide, trying to gauge the direction they came from. Not German, one of their own is hurt. Fuck, are they under attack? Ray leaps to his feet, looks around, heart pounding in his ears.   
  
Everyone else is wondering what's going on, but there's no panic, just confusion. There's the sound of running feet, a steady voice that's too distant to understand, but Ray recognizes the muted, soothing cadence of Doc Roe.   
  
When Ray looks back at Dukeman, he's sitting up.   
  
"I'll check it out," Will says softly, climbs out of the hole.   
  
Minutes pass.   
  
The Germans are quiet.   
  
Dukeman doesn't come back.   
  
The men in the surrounding foxholes return to their duties of sleep, bitch, or watch.   
  
"Hey Percy."   
  
A whisper directly behind him. Jesus Christ. Ray turns, rifle raised.   
  
It's Bill Guarnere. Ray lowers his weapon.   
  
"You hear what happened?"   
  
"No. What the fuck's going on?"   
  
Bill laughs. "Turns out some of these guys are pretty fuckin' jumpy. Smith thought Talbert was a Kraut cuz of that stupid poncho, poked Tab with his bayonet. What a dumbass." Guarnere laughs some more. "Tab'll be fine in a couple a weeks." He grins. "Heh, I bet nobody volunteers to share a foxhole with ol' Nervous Nelly for a while."   
  
Ray relaxes. Turns out there's some retard here after all.   
  
"I gotta take a piss," Bill says, heading toward a tree. "I dunno who the bigger threat is, Smith or them Krauts." Still chuckling, Bill disappears into the darkness.   
  
"Psst. Pers."   
  
Christ. Ray's Mister Fucking Popular tonight. He looks up to see a short guy glaring down at him. Ray doesn't take this personally; Johnny Martin always looks like he's boiling at a constant level of pissed.   
  
"Will you switch with me?" Martin asks. "Blithe is driving me nuts. I gotta get some fucking sleep."   
  
Ray nods. "Sure." He's tired of waiting for Dukeman and he'd like to see how Blithe is doing anyway.   
  
Martin lowers himself down, smiles grimly at Ray. "Thanks a lot. You know where to go?"   
  
Ray has a general idea. It's not like he can get lost, he's knee deep in paratroops. It takes him less than five minutes to find Blithe sitting alone in a hole at the east end of the hedgerow.   
  
Ray doesn't feel like getting gutted by another nervous soldier so he calls a warning to Alby. "Hey Blithe, it's me, Ray." He jumps down, sits beside Albert. "How's your vision? Can you still see okay?"   
  
Blithe nods, but he doesn't look at Ray. He sniffs hard, wipes his nose, like he's about to cry.   
  
"Ray?" Albert asks, his voice hoarse. "Can I...can I ask you a question?"   
  
Person settles back, clasps his hands behind his head. "Sure."   
  
"Do you think...do you think we're already dead?"   
  
Ray sits up, lowers his hands. He stares at Blithe, stunned. He opens his mouth, shuts it with a snap. Is Blithe out of time too? Is it possible he--   
  
Albert continues talking before Ray can get a good theory going.   
  
"Lieutenant Speirs says we're already dead. He says we're dead so there's nothing left to be afraid of."   
  
Ray glowers. Fucking Speirs. Sure, he gets where Speirs is coming from. He'd have probably made a good Marine. But Speirs should lay off the fucking pep talks.   
  
"We're not dead," Ray says. "We're trained to do this shit, Alby.  _You're_  trained. This is the same shit from Basic Training on up. Only this time, the Haj--uh, Krauts aren't guys you know playing dress-up. You're not alone out here, Alby. You've got your brains, you've got me." Ray taps Blithe's rifle. "You have this. You have to let the rifle think for you, be part of you. This isn't a rifle, it's part of your goddamn arm, you understand?"   
  
Blithe nods, eyes wide.   
  
"Listen," Ray says. He still knows the words by heart. They're always with him, like his mother's face or Sadie's smile. "My rifle is my best friend. It is my life. I must master it as I must master my life. My rifle, without me, is useless. Without my rifle, I am useless. I must fire my rifle true. I must shoot straighter than my enemy who is trying to kill me. I must shoot him before he shoots me."   
  
Blithe's eyes grow even bigger. "What is that?"   
  
"It's called the Rifleman's Creed." Trombley probably has it tattooed across his chest. "It's something the Marines say, but I think it works pretty fucking well for us too."   
  
"Thank you," Albert whispers and wipes his face with his sleeve.   
  
"Anytime," Ray says. He'd really like to be done with this day now. There's going to be a fuckload of fighting tomorrow according to Winters and he's tired.   
  
"You mind if I get some shut eye?" Ray asks. His eyes feel gummy, sore. So does the rest of his body.   
  
"Go ahead," Blithe tells him. "I don't think I can sleep."   
  
Blithe is whispering  _I must shoot straighter than my enemy who is trying to kill me. I must shoot him before he shoots me_  when Ray finally drifts off.   
  
* * *   
  
If he dreams, Ray doesn't remember. He wakes up to a sky the color of cement; the sun is a white streak of graffiti. His arm aches, his muscles are stiff.   
  
Albert's watching him with red-rimmed eyes. He smiles tremulously.    
  
"Morning, Ray."   
  
Ray pulls out his Lucky Strikes, yawns, looks at his Kraut watch. It's 0430 hours. Time to push the German forces back from Carentan once and for all. He holds the pack out to Alby.   
  
"Want one?"   
  
"No thank you, sir."   
  
The  _sir_  freaks Ray out but he's careful not to let it show.   
  
"Fall out, fall out," Martin yells, running past. He points at Ray. "Get your squad moving, hubba hubba."   
  
Men are on the move all around him, packing shit up, following orders, separating into platoons and squads, smoking. Ray blows out a long breath, lights his cigarette. Okay then. Time to figure this shit out. He can do this. He's sergeant of one of the first platoon rifle squads. Take that, Brad.   
  
"Round up the guys," Ray orders Blithe.   
  
"Yes, sir." Albert climbs out of the hole, his usual fear replaced with purpose. "Second First Platoon Rifle Squad on Sergeant Person, now!" Albert calls.   
  
Within minutes, Dukeman, Liebgott, Alley, Perconte, Hoobler, Shifty and Blithe are gathered in a semi-circle. Ray makes sure everyone has plenty of ammo, then falls out behind Guarnere's squad.   
  
Easy Company digs in on the outskirts of Carentan, along the edge of a small forest. New foxholes are dug, mortars and machine guns set up.    
  
Liebgott sits on a pile of dirt, digs in a pocket. He pulls out a pack of godawful Charms. "Hey, guys, got any smokes? You want some of this candy shit?"   
  
"Nah," Luz says, "I'm all right."   
  
Ray throws his Luckies to Liebgott. "Here. Keep your goddamn candy."   
  
Bull comes up, his helmet full of ammunition. "The outpost got ammo,” he says around his ever-present cigar. “Take what ya need."   
  
Welsh stands in front of Ray's group clutching his rifle. "We don't know what they've got. We may be attacking a weaker force. Possibly more paratroopers."   
  
Hoobler grins. "And you know how  _they_  can be."   
  
Welsh nods toward the field in front of them. "Fire and maneuver. That's the name of the game: Fire and maneuver." He points west. "Dog and Fox Companies will be on our left flank, moving with us. Any questions?"   
  
Ray's got plenty of questions, but he doesn't think Welsh can answer any of them.   
  
Welsh nods, pats Ray on the shoulder. "Let's make them holler."   
  
Ray holds his rifle ready.  _Stay frosty._   
  
Frank checks his watch. "It's 9:30 in the evening back home. Must be---"   
  
"Mortar!" Shifty yells.   
  
And then it begins. To a civilian, it might look like chaos. To some degree, it is. The falling shells, the criss-crossing bullets. It's the choreography of war. This is Ray's job, whether he's in a Humvee, a jeep, firing at Hajis or Krauts. Some men carry a fucking briefcase to work. Ray carries a rifle.   
  
"Incoming!" Ray shouts at his men. "Everybody in the hole! Down, down,  _down_ ."   
  
Ray can see Skip, Malark and Penk firing their own mortars further down the line.   
  
Winters walks past, shouting encouragement. "Watch for silhouettes on the horizon! Find your target! Muzzle fire!" He shouts over the sound of incoming shells. "Nail it! Mortar, keep it low! Keep low! Go! Go! Go!" He turns to Ray. "Person!  _Person_ ! Get your men in order! Stay low! Pour it on then, Person! To your left!"   
  
Ray pours it on. His men are in order. Shifty's dropping Krauts left and right. Every shot Shifty takes hits a German. It's like Shifty Powers doesn't know  _how_  to miss. Still, even as they fall, the enemy infantry comes closer.   
  
Wild Bill waves a hand. "Sergeants, reverse! Cover the crest of that hill!"   
  
And there, at the top of the hill, come the tanks. Soldiers flank the ass as it moves forward. It's fucking insane. This is like some old video game. Both sides line up in their uniforms--no flak jackets, no kevlar--just waiting to get blown to fuck. It all looks so fucking organized. Christ, why can't the Hajis get with the program and wear a goddamn uniform?   
  
_Get some_ , Ray thinks, and fires.   
  
The Krauts fire back. They just keep coming, like there's some kind of magic German VW clown car back there, filled with a never-ending supply of fucking soldiers.   
  
"Holy shit!" Welsh yells, gaping. "There goes our left flank!"   
  
Sure enough, Dog and Fox are retreating like fucking pussy losers.   
  
Fuck them, Ray has bigger things to worry about. Like impending death. He has no idea how long the battle lasts. Time has no meaning here. He's aware of nothing but his heartbeat, the sound of his rifle, the steady stream of curses coming from Liebgott. Ray aims and shoots. A hundred times. A thousand. He doesn't feel the ache in his arm, the cramp in his hand.   
  
Blithe is still in his foxhole, freaking out. Everyone else is on the ball, especially Liebgott and Shifty. Winters stands over Blithe, coaxes the kid out like he's a fucking groundhog and it's time to see his shadow.   
  
Adrenaline pulls every leaf into sharp, crystalline focus. Ray can count the silver buttons on the Kraut uniforms. Each empty shell casing from his rifle seems to spin forever, like a brass pinwheel. Around him, men scream and swear and bleed.   
  
Blithe is up now, firing along with Winters. He's clearly afraid, but his fear of disappointing Winters trumps his fear of death.   
  
Welsh and some pasty-faced private are aiming a bazooka at an oncoming Panzer. Ray's afraid they're gonna get crushed or blown to bits, or both, when the rocket fires. The tank rocks with the explosion, bursts into fire, grinds to a halt. Fucking-A.   
  
The air is full of heat and dirt and light. It's full of sweat and fear and noise. It's full of rage and death and smoke. Ray squints through the smoke, rubs his eyes, checks his men. Everybody's okay. Some of the guys are bleeding, but none of his men are seriously hurt. Thank Christ.   
  
Blithe turns to look at Ray, eyes wide with shock. "I...I did it, Sarge."   
  
Ray grins. "You sure fucking did."   
  
There's a huge metallic boom.   
  
More, the guy who likes to steal shit, looks around. "Jesus! What was that?" Relief smoothes the tension from his face. "Shermans!"   
  
Nixon laughs. "Well hello, Second Armored."   
  
"That's right, you sorry asses!" Frank yells at the retreating German soldiers. "Run!"   
  
Germans fall in the thick green grass. They lie face up, face down, on their sides. Ray doesn't think about the fact he's killing men who've probably been forced into the Army, men who can't surrender because their own NCOs might shoot them. He doesn't think about how the only thing that separates these men from himself is a threadbare uniform.   
  
The Shermans roll forward, a dozen of them, forcing the remaining Germans to run back to their fucking clown car and drive away.   
  
Duke and Lieb and Blithe pat each other on the back, smile at Ray. Hoobler whoops, informs everyone within hearing distance the first Luger they find is his. Liebgott throws Ray's cigarettes back, flashes a little salute. Ray catches the pack in one hand, pulls a Lucky out, lights it. These men treat Ray with respect. No one makes fun of him here. Nobody calls him white trash or fag or asshole.   
  
For the first time since Ray found himself in this place, he feels something besides fear and trepidation. He feels pride. Pride in his men. In himself.   
  
* * *   
  
Ray spends the next three weeks doing his job. He stops obsessing over how long he's going to be trapped here. He accepts the fact he's not in the middle of some whacked Ambrose Bierce story, that the last twenty days haven't simply been his final breath as he bleeds out onto a Baghdad street.   
  
He's a paratrooper, stuck in a France-shaped box. That's fine. That's fucking  _great_ . He's got food and water. Hell, he's got friends. Luz hasn't said anything else about Ray acting "off," thank God. Ray's scared shitless the first time he leads a patrol to check out an old barn. He's scared shitless the second time he leads a patrol. By the third time, he's reached a level of fear he can deal with. His men are okay. Ray's been living with fear long before he ended up in the Twilight Zone. He owns the fear now; it doesn't own him.   
  
Until Blithe gets dropped by a fucking sniper.   
  
Martin and Dukeman are with him.   
  
Welsh and Nixon are leading an expedition to check out an abandoned farmhouse. Only it's not abandoned. Blithe, the newly-minted badass, volunteers to be on point. Johnny and Duke go with him. Ray's watching an ant crawl up the side of his boot when he hears the shot. He can't see Blithe, but he knows. He  _knows_ . And then he fucking runs, shoving Shifty and Bill and scaredy-cat Smith out of his way.   
  
Martin's screaming for a medic, Duke's got his hand on Alby's neck as they drag him back, back, away from the farmhouse. Blithe's eyes are open, his mouth is a perfect "O" of surprise. Ray can see splinters in Alby's neck. At first he thinks it's bone and his stomach lurches, but no. It's wood. These stupid fucking Krauts are so retarded they still ride around on fucking  _horses_ , they use fucking  _wooden_  bullets like this is the fucking War of 1812.   
  
Blithe's neck is a mass of red, wet splinters, blood leaks like a faucet. Roe's trying to bandage Blithe's neck as best he can, looking into Blithe's eyes, telling him to  _stay with me, goddammit_  but there's a  _lot_  of blood. Roe's hands keep slipping.   
  
_Please_ , Ray almost-prays.  _Please let Blithe be okay._   
  
Blithe's eyes are the color of a perfect sky. His eyes are still focused upward, on the clouds, as his body shakes. Albert Blithe has the same blond hair, the same blue eyes as Brad, the same slow, crooked smile. But that's where the similarities end. Blithe is soft-spoken, overly sensitive, shy. He's fragile where Brad is hard, impenetrable ice. But Blithe is one of the few men here Ray felt like he'd actually known. Maybe it was the accent, the shy smile, the way Alby actually thought Ray knew shit. Maybe it's because Ray's desperate and lonely and he recognized a kindred spirit Blithe. Whatever it was, it's too late now.   
  
Guarnere is standing behind Roe, face drawn. Bill talks like he's a fucking tough guy, but he'd been fond of Albert too. They take turns telling Blithe he'll be okay, he's going to make it, this is his ticket home, hoo-fucking-ray. Albert just stares the whole time, face blank, like he's already gone.   
  
Ray helps strap Blithe to the hood of the jeep. This is so much worse than Pappy's foot, than Q-Tip's leg. The dead Hajis are bad, the dead civilians worse, but this is the first person Ray knows-- _likes_ \--who might not make it.   
  
Roe pulls himself into the jeep, face hard.   
  
Ray puts a hand on the door. "Doc, is Albert going to make it?"   
  
Doc looks at Ray. He looks exhausted. He shakes his head once, starts the vehicle. "I dunno, Pers."   
  
Ray stands there, helpless, and watches Roe drive off. In that moment, he feels a surge of hate for the Krauts. For himself. He should have volunteered to go with Blithe. He should have trained the kid better. He should have done  _something._  Ray pulls his helmet off, throws it on the ground.   
  
"Fucking shit cocksucking  _fuck._ " He kicks the helmet, watches it bounce feebly after Roe's jeep.   
  
"Those fucking asshole dildo fuckheads!"   
  
Ray rubs his hands over his head, sniffs. He exhales loudly, works to get control of himself. When he looks up, Skip's staring at him like he's speaking in tongues.   
  
"What's a dildo?"   
  
Ray frowns. He has an image of himself telling Muck it's a kind of dill pickle. Then he sees Skip having Thanksgiving with his family and Faye, asking his father to please pass the dildos. As pissed as Ray is, he can't do that Skip.   
  
Ray rubs his eyes, reaches for his canteen, takes a drink.   
  
Now Luz and Bill are staring at him too.   
  
"Do you guys know what the fuck a dildo is?" Skip asks.   
  
Luz shake his head, Bill smirks.   
  
Ray sighs. He recites in a voice with no inflection: "A dildo is a vibrating device that substitutes for an erect penis. You put it up--"   
  
"Holy  _shit_ ," Skip says, clapping one hand over his mouth. He looks horrified. "Are you--is that-- _are you kidding me_ ?" Skip's voice actually squeaks on the last few words.   
  
Bill chuckles. "He ain't kiddin,' Skipper."   
  
"Huh," Luz says with an eyebrow wag. "Nobody better tell the girls or we're fucking done for."   
  
"Is yelling about dildos part of that Tourette's thing?" Muck asks curiously. He still looks a little green around the edges.   
  
Ray nods. Him and his fucking big mouth.   
  
"What's Tourette's?" Bill asks, holding out his hand for Luz's lighter.   
  
Luz tosses the lighter over. "It's when you can't help yelling random curse words and shit." He looks at Ray for confirmation. "Isn't that right?"   
  
Ray nods morosely. "Something like that."   
  
"Ha," Bill says, "I guess I got that too. So did my old man." He lights his cigarette, casts a sly look at Ray. "What I wanna know is, how the fuck does a Southern gentleman such as yourself know what a fuckin' dildo is?"   
  
Ray thinks fast. It's difficult since Bill just called him a  _Southern gentleman_ , but he does his best. Chaffin's crusty old catalog pops into his head.   
  
"Uh, a friend of mine--" which is stretching the truth by about a thousand miles "--had a catalog of all kinds of crazy sex shit. There was this one dildo made out of crystal and the little slogan said 'adds elegance to every fuck.'" He can't help grinning at the memory. Christ, how retarded can you get?   
  
Guarnere brays with laughter. "Jesus Christ, Percy." He pats Ray's cheek. "I think I fuckin' love you."   
  
"Shit," Skip says, "and here I was thinking candlelight would do the trick."   
  
They laugh some more. Eventually the laughter turns to silence, heavy as lead. Ray goes to get his battered helmet, wipes it off on his jacket.   
  
"Glad you guys are having such a great time," Welsh calls. "Now get the fuck over here, hubba hubba."   
  
They head back to the rest of the platoon. They still have a farmhouse to secure. Ray has a Kraut to kill. He puts his helmet back on, takes a final drag on his smoke.   
  
"Hell of a thing about Blithe," Guarnere says softly, tossing his own cigarette butt to the ground. "Hell of thing."   
  
Ray elbows Bill, trying for one last moment of levity. "Maybe we can send him a get well dildo."   
  
Luz smacks the back of Ray's helmet. "Shut up, Ray," he says affably.   
  
George sounds so much like Brad, Ray has to look away. He doesn't want anyone to see him cry like a fucking pussy.   
  
* * *   
  
Aldbourne looks like a fucking postcard. Or maybe a Norman Rockwell painting of what a quaint mid-nineteenth century English village is supposed to look like. Ray feels like he's in the middle of some period movie, every one around him in costume.   
  
The phone service sucks. Not just because all the phone numbers Ray knows don't work, but because some retarded operator keeps coming on the line to inform him in over-friendly tones his numbers don't work. Like he doesn't already know. Thanks for nothing, bitch. There are no computers, no internet, no malls, no superstores, no Mountain Dew, no Rudy with a pot of fine November Juliet. Even the porn is super lame. Where's Jasmine when you need her?   
  
Some of the guys go on leave. Bill and Johnny try to get Ray to come to Scotland. Skip and Malark want Ray to come to Paris. Ray's mildly interested, but he feels like he should stay at the barracks. He has no idea if his grandpa went on leave, or with whom. He'd rather play it safe.   
  
Besides, what Ray really wants is to be alone.   
  
If he's supposed to accept this as his new, unimproved reality, that means everyone he knows is gone. None of his friends have been born yet. Neither has Sadie. His mother isn't even around. The only person he knows is his grandma and she's 17 years old. There's a part of him that wants to write her, wants to tell her he misses her, that he loves her, but he can't bring himself to do it. What if he accidentally Marty McFlys himself out of existence?   
  
Ray spends the next month getting jerked around. The Brass says there's gonna be a jump, then there isn't. There's gonna be a jump, then there isn't. It's almost like Godfather's back in charge.   
  
He runs every morning. It's not like there's anything else to do. Sometimes he passes Winters running too. Dick always nods hello. Once Ray asks Duke if he wants to come along.   
  
Dukeman makes a pissy face. "Christ, didn't you get enough running at Toccoa?"   
  
So much for company.   
  
New guys come in. The Easy men call them replacements and treat them with the same amount of respect you'd give a cockroach. Well, not quite. Once Bill gets back, he falls in man love with a red-haired kid named Edward "Babe" Heffron. Heffron's from Philly, so they spend hours yapping in their retardo accent. Ray doesn't pay too much attention to the new kids. Most of them end up on Bull's squad. Ray has trouble keeping the original Easy guys straight, he's not about to worry about the replacements.   
  
When he's not shooting targets, running, doing calisthenics, sleeping, or feeling sorry for himself, he looks through his grandfather's things. At first he feels creepy, like he's spying on Grandpa Ray. Until he finds a box of Agatha Christie novels. Thank Christ. At least he can reread  _And Then There Were None._   
  
Ray also finds a thick stack of letters from Grandma Arlene. He doesn't want to read them, but he does anyway. He's hoping to find some clues about who his grandfather was, how he behaved, who he was friends with. Arlene's letters are filled with newspaper clippings, lots of info on how the Toccoa guys are badass. They run up a fucking mountain, Easy Company runs circles around the other eight companies. Colonel Sink makes Easy Company march a million miles just because some Japanese troops marched a million miles. The 506th beat the Japanese record, although Ray Henry had blisters on his feet for two months.   
  
At first, Ray thinks Dukeman and Liebgott are going to give him shit for reading Arlene's letters, think he's some kind of perv. Then he remembers the letters are technically, sort of,  _his_ . They'll just think he's lonely and pathetic instead. Which is pretty fucking accurate.   
  
Ray wishes he'd known his grandpa better. He wishes he'd asked Arlene about the war. In the dim, flickering light, Ray sits on his bunk surrounded by his grandmother's pristine handwriting. He scratches his arm absently. It's mostly healed now. There's a mottled pink line above his elbow. Ray has a fleeting memory of rubbing his small child's thumb over this very scar. It used to remind him of Silly Putty.   
  
Ray drops his head in his hands, overwhelmed.   
  
He can't imagine writing his grandma, pretending to be her Ray. Not only is it fucking gross, it's a lie. Ray has no idea what the proper letter writing etiquette is for when you've swapped consciousnesses with your dead grandfather. Ray glares, rubs the back of his neck. Thanks for nothing, fucking Ann Landers.   
  
It's not that he doesn't know what to say, he could fake his way through a few paragraphs. It's that Arlene is  _alive._  She's only 17. She's got her whole life in front of her, but to Ray, she's been dead for less than three months. He hasn't even had time to grieve, and he's not going to start now.   
  
Guarnere walks in. He's doing his usual pimp walk, like he's on the prowl to find his girls. If Bill had been in Bravo, Ray's pretty sure he'd be in charge of the whole fucking company, have himself a harem of hot Haji action, or be in the brig. Maybe all three. At once.   
  
Bill's jaw comes up. "What's eatin' you?"   
  
Ray tidies the letters to a pile, reaches for his bottle of warm beer. "Do you believe in time travel?"   
  
Guarnere's brow creases like he's trying to learn fucking Calculus.    
  
"What, like HG Wells and shit?"   
  
"I don't know. I guess."   
  
Wild Bill sits down on Dukeman's empty bed. "Percy, I believe in what I can see. I believe in cheap cigarettes, the buddy on either side a me, my goddamn rifle. I believe there's no such thing as too much beer. I believe you should never pay more than five bucks for some female companionship and you should  _never_  play cards with Malarkey." He taps a front pocket, pulls out a rosary. "And I believe in this." He drops the black beads back into his pocket, spreads his hands, smiles. "No more, no less. What about you?"   
  
Ray doesn't know how to answer. "I...I don't know what I believe," he finally says. "Not anymore."   
  
Bill purses his lips, blows out a trumpet sound of air. "Up and at 'em." He grabs Ray by the shoulder, pulls. "Come on," Guarnere says, putting an arm around Ray. "You need somethin' stronger than beer."   
  
Bill and Johnny proceed to get Ray wasted. Ray can't remember much about his night at the pub, but he remembers just enough to feel like vomiting long after the nausea passes. He lies face down on his bunk.    
  
Bill, Skip and Dukeman are horrible, evil ratfucks because they're in Ray's room. They're breathing. Loudly.    
  
Ray rolls onto his side, tries to glare Bill into silence. Or suffocation. "You motherfucking asshole shithead. I can't think of an Italian slur bad enough right now, so I'm just going to say you talk like a fucking retard and I hate your fucking guts."   
  
Guarnere grins at his friends. "This one's a real bundle of fuckin' sunshine when he wakes up."   
  
"A regular Pollyanna," Skip agrees.   
  
Dukeman tries to keep a straight face, fails. "He sounds like my mom."   
  
"I gotta tell ya, you said some interesting things last night, Pers."   
  
"I didn't know the war started cuz Hitler didn't get laid enough. If I knew you could start wars over that kind of shit, I'd have started one a long time ago," Dukeman says, laughing.   
  
"No kiddin.'" Bill punches Ray's leg. "Here. Take your goddamn medicine, ya baby."   
  
Ray looks at Bill's offering. He's holding a canteen and two aspirin. "I told Doc Roe I had a headache. Ain't I a pal?"   
  
"Yeah. If pal is British for asshole."   
  
Ray sits up slowly, cursing the world, Bill, himself. Guarnere instantly plops down next to Ray.   
  
"Christ, I didn't know you were such a fuckin' lightweight."   
  
"Stop saying words," Ray mutters, "and get the fuck out of my face."   
  
"What's Rip Fuel?" Skip asks, lighting a cigarette.   
  
" _Ripped_  Fuel," Ray corrects. "And it isn't anything. Never mind."   
  
"Guys, I sense Ray ain't in the mood for our witty repartee." Bill pronounces the word  _ray-par-tee._   
  
Dukeman and Skip make exaggerated  _we're sad_  faces.   
  
"No, I'm really not," Ray says. He swallows the aspirin down, hands the canteen back to Gonerreah. "I just need to sleep."   
  
Bill barks a laugh. "Good fuckin' luck. PT starts in 30 minutes. Get your ass up."   
  
"Fuck you," Ray says. "Next time you want to take me drinking, just shoot me instead. It'll save me a lot of fucking misery."   
  
Guarnere nods, extends a hand. "Deal."   
  
* * *   
  
Ray stays away from hard liquor after that. He goes to the pub and has a few beers, gets a buzz on, but that's it. He doesn't need to start rambling about how he belongs in the future and wake up in a straight jacket. No thanks.   
  
Ray tries not to think about his old life. He packs up thoughts of Brad and his Marine brothers, Sadie, his mother, and shoves them to the back of his mind. Those thoughts don't do him any good here. The only thing thinking about home does is make him feel worse. He's here whether he wants to be or not. He doesn't want to be responsible for getting someone killed because he's too busy weeping into his cammies. Scratch that. His ODs.   
  
Something better fucking change before the war ends, because Ray is  _not_  going home to fuck his grandma. Brad made plenty of jokes about Ray being an inbred sister-fucking hick, but Ray's not about to prove Brad right. Ray's interested in a lot of sick shit, but incest doesn't make the list.   
  
He tries to distract himself by tinkering with Luz's radio, playing Poker with Liebgott and Alley, sparring with Joe Toye who's got muscles like iron. Skip and Malark are always going on and on about Glenn Miller, but Ray just can't get into the music. Ray misses singing, but there's nothing but big band and folk songs or gay-ass ballads. Fuck, he'd even take the Beatles over this shit.   
  
Ray has trouble sleeping. He's losing weight, and he's a skinny fuck to begin with. He reads his grandfather's books, rereads Arlene's letters. He smokes so much he can feel his lungs turning black. He still runs most mornings; now he and Winters run together. They don't talk, just keep each other silent company. Ray expects it to be awkward, but it's not. He figures Dick runs to stay in shape. Ray runs because it gives him the illusion he's actually getting somewhere.   
  
By the beginning of September, there's talk of another jump. The operation consists of two parts, codenamed Market and Garden. According to the rumors, this operation has little chance of getting scrubbed. Ray spends a fair amount of time watching replacements jump from the lumbering C-47s in preparation of the mission. Christ, it's an amazing sight, the sky is filled with a hundred white umbrella tops. Against the solemn blue, they look like perfect clouds. It's like flying.   
  
Ray finds that he's actually looking forward to jumping, going back into battle. Kicking the Krauts out of Holland should be more interesting than sitting around here. Christ, there isn't even any pizza. Ray's working on a rudimentary drawing of the barracks when Doc Roe comes in. Ray's not exactly an artist, but everyone learned depth perception and perspective during the endless Recon training.   
  
"Feeling any better?"   
  
Person nods half-heartedly. "My arm's all healed up. My ankle's fine." Ray points to his bunk. "I even have a new helmet."   
  
Eugene sits on Ray's bed, picks up his helmet, sets it back down.   
  
"I'm glad to hear it, but that's not what I meant."   
  
Ray continues sketching. Maybe he'll send the picture to his grandmother. He hasn't decided.   
  
"What's this about you telling everybody you have Tourette's Syndrome, Ray?"   
  
"I can't help it," Ray says. "It's genetic."   
  
"No, it's a psychiatric disorder. And just because you swear a lot doesn't mean you have it. What kind of motor tics do you have?"   
  
Ray sighs. "What do you want from me, Doc?"   
  
"I want you to tell me the truth."   
  
"Okay then, Tourette's isn't a psychiatric disorder, it's a neurological movement disorder. I'd tell you to look it up, but you'll have to wait another fifty years."   
  
Roe's eyes go cold. He stands, ready to leave.   
  
"Wait," Ray says. "I'm sorry. I--I don't know what to do."   
  
Eugene slowly sits back down. He looks at Ray, his anger replaced with concern.   
  
"Sergeant, are you trying to get a Section 8 or do you think something is really wrong?"   
  
There's something pretty fucking wrong all right. "I'm not trying to get a Section 8," Ray tells Roe. "I'm not crazy." He reconsiders. "I mean, not much. But there  _is_ something wrong."   
  
"You still think you don't belong here." It's not a question.   
  
Liebgott walks in. He's holding a bottle of beer and he's clearly drunk.   
  
He glares at Ray, sneers. "Listen asshole, I don't care if you're a fuckin' nutcase or not. I don't care if you think you're from the future, Mars, or the Wild Fucking West." He pokes a finger at Ray's chest. "What matters is, you do your job and you protect your men. You belong with  _us._  We fucking depend on you, Pers. If you can't fuckin' take the pressure, then get the fuck out before you get us or yourself killed."   
  
Ray stares at Liebgott, mouth agape.   
  
This skinny punk-ass Jew just called him Captain America. Ray is a lot of things: white trash, immature, skinny, wordy, annoying, short. But he is  _not_  irresponsible. He was a damn good Marine in Afghanistan and Iraq, and he's a damn good soldier now. Okay. So Brad and Walt and Poke and everybody the fuck else is gone. Ray doesn't need them. He'll get his grandfather through the war just fine. And not just Ray Henry Person. He'll get his men through safely.  _His_  men. Damn, that has a nice ring to it.   
  
"I'm not gonna get you killed," Ray says. "You're gonna die of alcohol poisoning long before some fucking Kraut gets a chance to shoot your lazy ass."   
  
Lieb glowers at Ray for another moment, then bursts out laughing.   
  
Ray looks at Eugene. "I'll be okay."   
  
Doc nods. "Good. Cuz from what I hear, we're out of here in less than a week."   
  
* * *   
  
Ray stands up, hooks up, counts off with the rest of the paratroops in his stick. It's a good thing he's toward the back of the plane, or he'd have no fucking clue what was going on. Person gets up to the door, watches the light turn green. The wind whistles past him. He's a devil dog in baggy pants. Ray grins and steps out into the early morning light.   
  
The fall is exhilarating. Turns out jumping is way cooler 1) when you can fucking see and 2) when you know what the hell is going on.   
  
The descent isn't too fast or too slow, it's perfect. If this is how Ray got to start every morning, maybe he'd actually want to get up. This time he lands on his feet, the buckle doesn't stick. He's out of the chute in less than three minutes. Bull and his squad are already off the field. Men scurry to get clear of troopers still on their way down.   
  
Ray gathers his men. Babe Heffron's replaced Blithe. Babe's a good soldier, Ray tries not to hate him just because he's here and Alby isn't.   
  
Person figures the people of Eindhoven might be happy to see the cavalry come to their rescue, but happy doesn't even begin to cover it. The whole city is celebrating in the streets, dancing, waving, greeting the American and British soldiers like the second coming. And Jesus brought fucking tanks and chocolate, yo.   
  
Most of the women hug soldiers, plant lip-sticked kisses on everything in a uniform. Perconte gets his face stuck in some woman's ginormous tits and comes out looking like he just learned the secret of the whole fucking universe. Perco looks so retarded Ray half expects to see a ring of chirping tweety birds circle the guy's head.   
  
It feels weird to be welcomed this openly. Old men call them angels and heroes, children throw flowers. Women hand them plates of food. For fuck's sake, three different kids ask for Ray's autograph. It's fucking insane. Ray's used to the veiled hostility of Iraq, the weary resignation of Afghanistan. This reverence bullshit makes him fucking nervous. It reminds him of the Bible story where Jesus rode into town on a donkey and everybody threw palm branches and did the fucking wave. It looked like a goddamn party, but if memory serves, things didn't end so well for Junior Christ.   
  
The Krauts attack outside Eindhoven. It's a hard, fast battle. The Brits are too retarded to do much good. Mostly they drink tea and blow up with their tanks. Bull goes missing. Compton gets shot in the ass. One of the baby-faced replacements gets killed. Bill and Johnny do some macho hand wringing over Randleman, but he's back the next morning. Turns out Bull's a regular fucking Rambo. Bull's return is good news, but the sight of Eindhoven burning puts a damper on the celebration. Easy Company didn't get crucified after all. The Dutch did.   
  
* * *   
  
Ray's good mood is gone by the time they're back on the highway. His seat from atop a tank provides him a good view of the countryside. It's beautiful here. Except for the emaciated women trudging along the road with freshly shaved heads and swastikas drawn on their foreheads. Invariably, they hold crying babies. Ray wishes he had a pallet of humrats for these hopeless women and their children.   
  
They've been branded Nazis and Nazi-lovers and traitors and whores. It's easy to be a traitor when you have a gun to your head, or a knife to your throat. Sure, maybe some of the women did like the lifestyle, thought their Nazi boyfriends were hot shit. But he'd wager most of them were wooed with fists and threats, not flowers and fucking candy.   
  
The smell of smoke is still thick in the air. Eindhoven still smolders behind them. Ray wonders how happy the Dutch would be to see them now. It's a different century, a different people, but the Iraqis and Dutch both got fucked the same way. What good is liberating a town like Eindhoven or Baghdad when there aren't enough troops left behind to protect it when the parade's over? Why doesn't anybody plan for this shit? Does Montgomery think the Krauts are going to go willingly? Wave goodbye to their former pseudo-slaves and just skip off? Doesn't Godfather realize the Iraqis only barely tolerate the American military as it is? Christ, talk about history repeating itself. And Brad's not here to dig up the undetonated   
shells dropped in Eindhoven gardens.   
  
It starts to rain. A steady downpour that soaks everyone through within minutes. The sky is a mass of thick gray clouds.   
  
They dig foxholes in the rain.   
  
They sleep in the rain.   
  
They go on patrols in the rain, shoot Krauts in the rain, eat shitty British rations in the rain.   
  
Ray hated Iraq. There was so much fucking heat and humidity it was like living in Sadaam's crotch. But at least the desert cooled down at night. There were times Ray's allergies made him feel like shit, but at least he was dry. Within a week of the constant rain, half the men are sick with pneumonia or the shits. Ray's feet smell like rotting garbage and look worse. His fingers are pale and wrinkled; he has the skin of an old man.   
  
He flexes his fingers one September night, grinning. Now he really does have his grandfather's hands.   
  
"What's so funny?" Bill asks, shoulders hunched against the downpour.   
  
"Nothing."   
  
Bill and Ray just finished their watch, but there's nowhere to go to dry off. The thought of his foxhole holds no appeal; Ray's sick of sitting on branches to keep his ass out of mud and water. Even if he covers the top of the hole, water just leaks in down the sides, bubbles up through the dirt and roots. Fuck that.   
  
Luz stomps up to Ray and Bill, boots sinking deep into mud. "I'll tell you what's fucking funny. We're all gonna drown out here. What's the point in keeping Hans and Fritz off the fucking bridges? This whole place is gonna be under water. We're gonna float into goddamn Berlin on an ark."   
  
"Maybe that's Monty's secret weapon," Bill jokes. "He's buildin' an ark."   
  
"Wish I was already on it," Luz says dejectedly. A limp cigarette hangs dolefully from George's mouth. He throws it down in disgust. "I can't even keep my damn cigarette dry. This is bullshit."   
  
Ray nods in agreement. "Word to the motherfuckin' street, yo."   
  
Luz laughs, imitates Ray. "Fuckin' yo, man.  _Yo._ " He rolls his eyes, shakes his head. "What the fuck, Pers? You sound like a mentally deficient pirate."   
  
Bill grins, covers his eye with one hand. "Avast me mateys, let's plunder them goddamn Krauts for better fuckin' rations."   
  
Luz tilts his head, gives Bill a dour look. "Sometimes you make me really fuckin' sad," he says. "Christ, you call  _that_  a pirate?"   
  
Guarnere beams, unfazed. "That there's a South Philly pirate."   
  
"Arrgh," Luz says, sweeping an imaginary sword through the rain. "Shiver me timbers and chatter me teeth in this devil's gale. Fifteen men on a dead Hun's chest. Yo-ho-ho, let's find some rum," he growls in an imitation good enough to impress Robert Louis Stevenson.   
  
Ray can't believe he's standing in the rain listening to these morons pretend they're pirates. The fucking World War Two history books left this part out.   
  
"You are fucking retarded," Ray tells Luz fondly.   
  
"What," Luz demands, affronted, "like you wouldn't sell your own ma for some rum right now."   
  
"I'd sell the both a ya for some rum," Bill says. He shrugs. "No hard feelings."   
  
"I'd sell you both for a cup of fucking coffee," Ray says. Why couldn't he have jumped back in time with Rudy's espresso maker? "This fucking tea is shit, and the coffee's worse."   
  
Luz's eyes glaze. "Coffee," he murmurs reverently.   
  
"I hear Smokey has some coffee, ya imbeciles," Bill says. "Maybe he'll share with ya if ya ask real nice."   
  
"Don't worry," Ray says, "I'm gonna trade him."   
  
Bill scoffs. "What the fuck do you have to trade?"   
  
Ray grins. "It has to do with a dildo and your ass."   
  
The smile drops off Bill's face.   
  
For a long, sickening moment Ray thinks he's gone to far.  _Shit._  Easy Company hasn't exactly embraced homoerotic bullshit the way Bravo Company has. Now they're all gonna think Ray's gay or queer or a fucking fairy. Which wouldn't that bad except gay rights are currently at an all time low. If you're a dude in the closet, you better stay there and lock the fucking door.   
  
But then Bill laughs like Ray's just told the funniest joke in the whole fucking world, and who knows, maybe he has. Guarnere slaps Ray's back, beaming.   
  
"I cannot believe the fuckin' shit that comes outta your mouth, Percy. And here you are, lookin' like such an All-American Boy. You, Ray Person, are one deceitful fuck."   
  
Ray grins. "I've been called much worse, my friend," Ray says, breathing a sigh of relief. He makes a mental note: no more ass jokes.   
  
"Come on," Luz says, pulling Ray's sleeve. "The radio's fucked up again. Can you give me a hand?"   
  
Ray nods. Luz is playing his goddamn song. Hell to the yes he'll help. "Here's a thought. Maybe the fucking radio shouldn't sit out in the rain for two weeks straight."   
  
"Nah," Luz says with a wink. "I'm sure ain’t it."   
  
Bill frowns after them. "Oh fine," he snits. "Just leave me out here by myself, why don'tcha."   
  
Dukeman peers out of his foxhole, yawns. "What the fuck, Bill? I'm still here."   
  
"Yeah, yeah," Bill mutters. "Goody for you."   
  
Luz and Person head for the OP, where Luz has his radio stashed.   
  
"I'm starving," George says irritably. Water drips off his helmet.   
  
Ray steps around a large puddle. "I'd kill for a Pop-Tart."   
  
"What's a Pop-Tart?" George's mouth curves into a faint smile. "Sounds like a fancy French dame who jumps out of a big fuckin' cake."   
  
"Actually, that's a lot cooler than what it actually is," Ray says. "It's a kind of pastry."   
  
"A  _pastry_ ?" Luz cries. "Thanks for making me feel even worse."   
  
Ray grins, almost content. "My pleasure."   
  
* * *   
  
By October 5 the sky is still overcast, but the rain's stopped.   
  
First and second platoon are bivouacked in a barn near Opheusden. The barn is nice and dry and there's plenty of soft straw. After the previous weeks of rain, it feels like a four-star hotel.   
  
Everybody's sitting around talking, goofing off as much as they can get away with, considering Winters is sitting right there. Talbert's got himself a stray German Shepherd named Trigger. At least it's not another fucking poncho. Ray and Luz spend too much time feeding the dog their own meager rations, trying to teach him to fetch stuff. Ray spends one night trying to get Trigger to steal packs of Charms and bury them in a corner where the roof leaks.   
  
Right now everything's pretty calm. Most of the guys are catching a little shut-eye. Luz is eating crackers, Winters is taping his grenades so he doesn't accidentally blow himself up. Ray's helping Smokey come up with dirty lyrics to  _Oh, Susannah_ when everything goes to shit.   
  
The doors smash open and Liebgott and Lesniewski are standing there supporting Jim Alley. Alley is semi-conscious and covered in blood. His face, neck, his entire left side are bleeding from a dozen wounds.   
  
"Alley's hurt, we need the Doc," Les says. Lipton runs up, helps Les and Lieb get Alley on the table.   
  
Alley's eyes are open, but Ray doesn't think he knows what's going on.   
  
"Where am I?" he mutters. "Something happened." He tries to focus, rolls his head. "What happened?"   
  
Winters is staring down at Alley, face pulled tight. Luz looks stunned. Lip is the calmest, he dispatches Tab to get Roe.   
  
"They got us with a grenade," Lieb says. That's when Ray notices there's blood on Lieb's neck too.   
  
Roe arrives, gets down to business. He checks Alley's pupils, smoothes the hair off the soldier's blood streaked forehead, speaks softly.   
  
Lip and Winters are already directing the men to get their shit together.   
  
"It's gonna be okay, Alley," Doc says. Roe points to Lieb's neck. "You get that taken care of."   
  
Lieb nods. But it's obvious there's only one thing Joe wants to take care of, and it's not his fucking neck.   
  
Winters leads the patrol. He's stoic, silent, grim. Everyone is pissed, adrenaline is high. The patrol is like something out of a text book. Winters gives orders, the men follow. They make their way to the crossroads below the dike. Winters is a natural leader. If Ray ever does get back to Iraq, he's bringing Winters with him. Put him charge of the war and maybe there'll be an actual plan of some kind.   
  
It's 0400 hours. There's a cluster of German officers gathered around a MG-42. They're shooting the thing off for no goddamn reason, it's an open invitation to get fired upon. The retards just stand there, blathering like they're in the middle of a fucking book club instead of a goddamn war. Ray takes his squad down the hill after Winters. He's first, then Lieb, then Dukeman, then Perco and the rest. Ray looks back once; Liebgott winks.   
  
Skip and Malark send over a mortar. That ends the book club. Winters divides the two squads into three segments. Between the suppressing fire, Smokey's machine gun, and Malark's deadly aim, they've got a good start. Winters calls for the rest of first platoon while Muck and Malark take out the MG-42. The Krauts fight back, but only one of them gets off a lucky shot. Dukeman goes down.   
  
_Goes down._   
  
It's a fucking retarded expression.   
  
Like the dude's about to go to town on his girlfriend's pussy.   
  
Like he's about to ride a fucking elevator.   
  
Or, and this is stretching it, he's feeling a little blue.   
  
It's just like all the other bullshit euphemisms that are supposed to soften the blow, dull the truth. As in, Dukeman got hit. Dropped. Schwacked. Fucked. Nailed. Kicked the bucket. That's a good one, like Will was pissed or looking for a little exercise. Or maybe he made an investment: he bought the ticket, the farm, the ever popular "it."   
  
It doesn't matter. They all mean the same thing. No matter what words Ray uses, William Dukeman is still dead.   
  
The sun is up. The sky is clear. Ray blinks up at the clouds, confused.  _Today_  is a day for rain. A morning for mourning. The sky should be black, the sun hidden behind a fucking  _burqa_ .   
  
Winters is on the radio with Welsh. The rest of the guys are sitting in a ditch, smoking, napping, waiting. The way Winters is talking, they're going to cross the Island and take out a platoon of Krauts before the Krauts take out Easy.   
  
Dukeman's lying in the ditch too. His silence feels like a scream. Liebgott is beside him, oblivious, busy rifling through Duke's pockets like he's a fucking convenience store instead of a corpse. He pulls a pack of smokes out of Duke's jacket.   
  
Fury propels Ray forward, turns his limbs stiff, his face numb.    
  
"Knock it off, you fucking asshole," he says. His voice sounds like someone else's.   
  
Lieb looks up, misunderstands. "Oh, sorry." He throws the pack to Ray. "Here. You can have 'em, Sarge."   
  
Ray stares down at the red and white box. It feels heavy, like he's holding a stone. Or grief. He doesn't want the cigarettes. He wants Duke.   
  
Duke and Skip are the ones who found ( _saved_ ) him.   
  
Ray walks away, leaves Joe and Dukeman behind. He sinks down onto the trampled grass, puts his head in his hands.   
  
He whispers his litany. "Dicksuck cockfuck, fuckstick." It doesn't help. He says it again, this time inside his head. He says it until the words are meaningless, but he doesn't feel any better. He feels like crying. There’s no way to joke this away. A bullet hole in a windshield is one thing. A bullet hole in Dukeman is another.   
  
He senses movement but doesn't look up. Someone sits on his left, someone else on his right. He feels smooth metal tap his knuckles.   
  
"Hey, Pers."   
  
Ray scrubs at his face, looks up. Skip's watching him, twirling his fucking spoon around like it's the world's tiniest, most retarded baton. Malarkey’s on his other side.   
  
Person shakes his head. He has nothing to say.   
  
Skip slings an arm around Ray's shoulders. He smells like sweat and smoke and grass and oil and gunpowder. Ray closes his eyes, inhales. He hates that smell. He loves it.  _This_  is the smell of home, of belonging. Not fucking hot dogs or apple pie.   
  
"You're sitting here thinking what the fuck," Skip says quietly. "Why Dukeman? I know, because I'm thinking the same thing."   
  
Malark reaches for the Lucky Strikes still clutched in Ray's hand. He pulls three out, puts them in his mouth, lights each one. He hands one to Skip, one to Ray, keeps one for himself.   
  
"That's your problem right there," Don says, cigarette bobbing. He rubs his nose, shrugs. "You think there's a reason for this, that this--" he gestures around them vaguely "--is supposed to make sense. Let me tell you pal, none of this makes sense. Don't act like it does, or you're gonna go fucking nuts."   
  
Winters calls the men over, crouches in front of Ray's squad. What's left of it. Bull and Peacock are behind Ray.   
  
"Here it is," Winters says. "Bull, you'll take ten men along the dike. Peacock, you'll take ten men along the left flank." Winters points at Ray. "I'll take ten up the middle." He regards them all, solemn. "Fix bayonets."   
  
Christ. Now Ray really does feel like Captain America. He fits the blade onto the end of his rifle. Everyone's quiet, all you can hear is the  _click_  of metal against metal.   
  
"Go on the red smoke," Winters says. He surveys the men a final time, smoke canister in hand. He takes a deep breath, throws the canister, and runs.   
  
He runs like a goddamn superhero. Ray tries to imagine Encino Man or Captain America doing anything remotely like this. He can't. The smoke starts, it hangs in the air like a red veil. The men jump up and follow Winters. Ray can't see for shit, it's like running through a cloud; it feels unreal, like he's dreaming. He half expects to find Brad and Poke waiting for him on the other side.   
  
The only thing waiting is Winters. And a platoon of Nazis. Shit, these are the real deal, SS troops in black boots and silver insignia. The Republican Guard might be a bunch of motherfucking shitheads, but at least they don't burn Muslims by the oven-full.   
  
Ray drops down on his belly between Babe and Johnny. He hums, then starts singing under his breath, as he fires. God, he misses Metallica.   
  
_Blood will follow blood, dying time is here, Damage Incorporated._   
  
Johnny shoots; a German falls. "What the fuck are you singing?" he asks.   
  
"Nothing," Ray says, "I'm just telling the Krauts what they have to look forward to."   
  
Martin's eyes narrow. "They can look forward to a fuckin' bullet to the head," he mutters.   
  
Ray keeps singing, aims. He figures Johnny doesn't even need his M-1, he can probably just glare a few of these fuckers to death.   
  
Once the artillery starts, it's not even a battle. It's a rout. The earth geysers upwards, the ground shakes, the noise is deafening. Dirt rains back down, smoke and dust drifts thick above the trees. There are so many dead Nazis they fall in piles, their long black coats like shrouds.   
  
Sweat pours down Ray's face. He's no longer singing. Martin and Winters are collecting POWs, Roe's treating Easy Company wounded. Winters looks stunned at the carnage. His gaze keeps drifting back to a specific dead German soldier. Not even a soldier, a boy. He can't be more than 16. He looks like he's playing dress-up in his uniform. Jesus.   
  
Ray sits on the edge of the road, clutching his rifle, watching everyone move around him. Some of the Germans that litter the field aren't dead. They cry out for their mothers, each other, God. Their only answer is another bullet from Liebgott.   
  
Person wipes the dirt from his face. Bravo's gone, all he has left is Easy Company, these step-brothers in arms. Dukeman's dead, Alley's hurt bad, Gonorrhea's leg is busted, and now Lieb is picking off wounded Nazis like he's playing some weak-ass carnival game. He's not even putting the bastards out of their misery. He's aiming at legs, arms, shoulders. Lieb's smile looks like something Trombley would wear.   
  
Ray's torn between helping Joe and beating the shit out of him. Christ, they already got some, they've killed at least 50 guys, wounded twice as many. But this, right here? Isn't war. This is bullshit torture at worst, fucked up revenge at best. Punishing these dying men isn't going to bring back Blithe or Duke, or fix Alley. It's not going to make up for Dachau and Auschwitz. Ray gets Lieb's anger, he does. But that doesn't mean he wants to watch.   
  
Neither does Winters. The captain stops Joe; even takes his ammo.   
  
Ray wishes he'd have had the guts to do it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The beautiful artwork is by the very talented fishandcheese on LJ.

_I am singing to you  
Soft as a man with a dead child speaks;  
Hard as a man in handcuffs,  
Held where he cannot move:  
  
Under the sun  
Are sixteen million men,  
Chosen for shining teeth,  
Sharp eyes, hard legs,  
And a running of young warm blood in their wrists.  
  
And a red juice runs on the green grass;  
And a red juice soaks the dark soil.  
And the sixteen million are killing. . . and killing  
and killing.  
  
I never forget them day or night:  
They beat on my head for memory of them;  
They pound on my heart and I cry back to them,  
To their homes and women, dreams and games.  
  
I wake in the night and smell the trenches,  
And hear the low stir of sleepers in lines  
Sixteen million sleepers and pickets in the dark:  
Some of them long sleepers for always,  
  
Some of them tumbling to sleep to-morrow for always,  
Fixed in the drag of the world's heartbreak,  
Eating and drinking, toiling. . . on a long job of killing.  
Sixteen million men. _  
  
~ Carl Sandburg from the poem  _Killers_  
  
  
  
  
It's another three weeks before they're out of the mud in Holland. Before Ray's ears stop ringing from shells and gunfire. Before the smell of cordite leaves his hair, his clothes. It starts raining again. He sleeps in the rain, pisses in the rain, curses in the rain.  
  
He spends a lot of time with Skip, Penkala and Muck. Being with Skip makes him think of Duke, of the night they found him wondering around like a retard. Ray needs that. Skip is the anchor keeping him tethered to reality. Such as it is. He can't tell if thinking about Will is a comfort or punishment. Maybe it's both.  
  
Now that Will's gone, Ray shares a hole with Hoobler. Don goes on and on about how much he wants that fucking Luger. Ray's ready to go buy him one just to shut him the fuck up. Hoobs is a good kid. Ray's just frustrated. He feels like he's stuck limbo, like he's living a life that isn't his.  
  
When Don's sleeping, Ray takes off his helmet, pulls out the photo of his grandparents. They look at him, young and smiling, happy.  
  
 _What am I supposed to do?_  he asks them.  _Tell me what to do._  
  
They don’t answer.  
  
* * *  
  
Ray thought he'd been disgusting in Iraq. Or Afghanistan. But 70 days--three times as long as the Iraqi invasion--with no showers, no deodorant and no handiwipes makes him feel like his skin is made up of layers of dirt and grime. The showers are barely lukewarm but it feels like heaven. He stands beneath the water, soap in hand and scrubs until his skin is pink and sore. When he gets out he feels almost human.  
  
When they reach Mourmelon, there's a new uniform waiting. And a letter from Arlene.  
  
Ray spends the day trying to decide if he should answer her. Bill is back, so at least Ray can distract himself for a while. They have a few beers and catch up. Ray tries to listen to Bill's story about breaking out of the hospital, but it's hard to concentrate. Eventually he leaves Bill with Heffron and Toye and heads back to the barracks.  
  
Ray paces. He leafs through his grandmother's letters. He studies the photo in his helmet. Finally, Ray sighs, scowls, and pulls out a pencil and a piece of paper. He writes back. He can't write as Ray Henry, but he can write as himself. He can tell the truth.  
  
 _I miss you more than I can say. Thank you for always believing in me.  
  
Love, Ray_  
  
It's not much, but at least she'll know he's alive. He addresses the envelope carefully, hands it off to Vest himself.  
  
Person keeps thinking he needs to escape from this life, but maybe that's a mistake. Maybe he's not trapped in some metaphorical box, maybe he's  _supposed_  to be here. It's all about perception, isn't that what Fick used to ramble on about? Ray's alive _now_ . He doesn't have to go back to the future or his past or whatever the fuck.  
  
He's not alone. He has friends. Good ones. He still has his grandmother. After the war he can go see her, tell her the truth about who he is. That'll get Arlene to dump his ass pretty fucking fast. Hell, maybe she'll even believe him. He can buy her a beer and tell her what an awesome grandma she's going to be...for someone else.   
  
There's all kinds of shit he can do. Start another band. Fuck, he can invent rock and roll. Tell Buddy Holly to stay off that fucking airplane. Write up the Star Wars Trilogy. Buy Apple stock. Warn JFK not to ride in a fucking convertible. Maybe he can change shit for the better like he's in one of those retarded  _Quantum Leap_ episodes.  
  
And shit, even if he can't, he can still hang out with Bill and Skip and Luz. He can go see if Blithe made it. Christ, even with shitty music, it's not all bad. After all, people don't even know cigarettes kill you yet. He can fucking smoke  _anywhere._  Maybe he'll even stay in the Airborne. Go jump into Korea. Who knows. For the first time, thinking about life after the war doesn't make him want to scream or vomit.  
  
It's a start.  
  
Ray is cleaning his M-1 when Luz shows up.  
  
George grins around his cigarette. "Feel like a movie?"  
  
The only movie playing is  _Seven Sinners_  starring Marlene Dietrich and John Wayne. Luz has already seen it, like, 13 times. Ray's seen it at least six times. But they go anyway. It's black and white, from 1940. The first time Ray watched it, it was okay. Now that he's on number seven it's the most boring piece of shit in the universe. That's why Luz does Marlene's dialogue and Ray does John's. Or they just riff on the movie for a while, like they're  _Mystery Science Theater 1944_ . It's fucking hilarious. They even manage to piss off Lip, which is a real feat. Lipton's got the patience of a saint. Ray smirks. Looks like he hasn't lost his touch after all.  
  
Perco keeps laughing at their antics, Toye looks like he wants to stomp them into compost. Luckily, Joe's two rows away, so fuck him.  
  
Luz's favorite part comes up. "Gotta penneh?" he asks in a retarded accent, along with Dietrich.  
  
Ray reaches into his pocket and throws a handful of ( _wheat_ ) pennies at George. One lands in Luz's lap, another on his sleeve, the rest drop to the floor and bounce in all directions. They ring like tiny bells. That earns them even more glares and an honest to God  _shush_ .  
  
Luz and Ray promptly burst into laughter.  
  
Ray decides then and there he'll never watch another movie without George.  
  
Person stops laughing fast when a couple of Officers walk in. The movie's turned off and they receive orders to move out ASAP. Shit. They're heading to Bastogne, Belgium. He has a faint memory of his history teaching droning on about the Battle of the Bulge. Ray doesn't remember anything about it except a shitload of men died. That's more than enough to make him nervous.  
  
Within three hours they're bumping along narrow roads in the dark. It's already cold, but as the trucks near Belgium, the cold grows sharper. Nobody has a decent coat. Nobody has enough ammo.  
  
Bill sits with his arms folded, shivering. "So much for our Christmas football game," he laments.  
  
"So much for Christmas," Malarkey counters.  
  
Skip's wedged between Guarnere and Malark, grinning like he's having the time of his life. What a fucking freak. He keeps telling the replacements how many socks and undershirts and packs of smokes they should have. They all listen, rapt, too scared to laugh at Skip's jokes, his stupid rhymes. Everybody thinks Luz and Ray are the morale boosters, but really, Skip does more good than either of them. He's a fucking godsend.  
  
Bill catches Ray's gaze, offers him a wink and a grin.  
  
Skip waggles his eyebrows. "It's fucking cold out there, fellas. Nobody wants frostbitten balls."  
  
Malarkey lights a cigarette with trembling hands. "Christ, Skip. My nuts ain't gonna freeze. They're shrunk so far up I can't tell if that's them in my throat or my fucking tonsils."  
  
Even the newbies laugh at that.  
  
* * *  
  
Lack of ammo and winter clothes sucks ass, but the thing that worries Ray the most is Winters is no longer captain. There's some rich retarded replacement named Dike who's stuck-up family paid for him to get the goddamn position. Too bad they couldn't buy him a less retarded name as well. Dike makes Encino Man look like a fucking genius.  
  
Easy Company is fucked.  
  
The convoy of trucks stops outside of Bastogne. Ray disembarks, takes a leak beside Babe. Some of the guys start muttering and he turns to see what looks like an endless line of retreating US soldiers. Over half the men are wounded, swathed in makeshift bandages, holding each other for support. They all look dirty, disheveled, malnourished. Lost. Some of them mumble incomprehensibly, some stare at Babe and Ray, warn them they're going to die if they don't turn back.  
  
Toye doesn't give a shit about the men or their warning. The only thing he's interested in is their ammo. He grabs a grenade and a musette bag full of bullets from a limping soldier. Pretty soon the whole platoon is picking off whatever they can carry, whatever the blank-eyed men are willing to give up.  
  
Watching the broken men stagger off unnerves Ray. He's starting to think Easy Company's not just fucked, they're  _colossally_  fucked. Easy Company passes the line of silent men, heads toward Bastogne. All three Battalions are going to form a ring around the city, keep the Germans out.  
  
Snow falls. Not much, just a few flakes. The wind is a razor through Ray's jacket. He walks with Luz and Toye and Bill, grimacing into the wind, cigarette clenched between his teeth.  
  
* * *  
  
Ray's hands are rough and calloused, but they still bleed when he tries to dig a foxhole. The ground is frozen, it takes hours to dig even the most half-assed hole. Dukeman isn't around to help, but the men take shifts digging, resting, smoking. Ray can't feel his fingers, which is just as well since they're covered in blisters.  
  
Lipton and Roe help the most. Ray is beyond thankful. Lip doesn't smoke, but Ray makes a point of offering Doc a cigarette whenever he can. Person still can't believe Roe is expected to sit around out here without a weapon. It's fucking ridiculous. Easy is the primary assault company of the 506th and Doc's armed with nothing but fucking bandages, morphine and faith. It's nowhere near enough.  
  
Their second day outside the city, it begins to snow in earnest. Endless drifts pile up, heavy as fuck. Now everyone's wet  _and_  cold. The Germans send them to sleep with bombing raids. As lullabies go, it fucking sucks. Ray would take country music over this shit. The only consolation is the shells fall to the south. The bombs sound like thunder. The trees shake, sending snow into previously cleared foxholes.  
  
Ray lies in his hole with Hoobler, a thin wool blanket pulled tightly around his shoulders. He's shaking so hard he thinks he's going to pull a fucking muscle.  
  
"I-I'm so f-fucking cold I can't feel my goddamn dick," Ray says, teeth chattering.  
  
"Fuck the cold," Hoobs scoffs. "You just got a tiny fucking dick."  
  
"Shut up already," Bill says. "I don't wanna feel my goddamn dick. Feels like fuckin' needles every time I piss."  
  
Babe laughs. "Maybe you got trench dick."  
  
"Yeah, that's real fuckin' hilarious. Keep it up and I'm gonna put my trench  _foot_  right up your fuckin' ass."  
  
Hoobler grins. "That's one w-way to warm your feet."  
  
Ray laughs weakly. It's too cold to laugh. To talk. Fuck, it's too cold to breathe. Shifty says the wind chill is almost thirty below. Jesus fucking Christ, Ray can't remember being this cold in his whole fucking life.  
  
They go on patrols, scout through the forest. By December 23 it's not only freezing, there's fog everywhere. It's like walking through soup. Actually, walking through soup would be better--at least it'd be warm. A Kraut wanders across the line, takes a dump twenty feet from Winters. Babe falls into a German foxhole, literally steps on some freaked out Kraut. It's already a shitty situation, but the fog makes everything worse.  
  
The nightly bombing continues. Tonight the Krauts drop something else, something that does reach Easy Company: leaflets.  
  
Ray crawls out of his foxhole, starts gathering as many of the propaganda sheets as he can.  
  
Luz squints down at one of the pages. "Whaddya know. The Germans say we're gonna lose the war. I, for one, am fucking surprised by this information."  
  
"Jesus, Percy," Bill says, "what the fuck do you want with that shit?"  
  
Skip snaps his fingers, grins. "I do believe he's got the right idea."  
  
Bill's eyebrows jump. " _What_  idea?"  
  
Ray holds up a handful of the leaflets, beams. "Who needs toilet paper when you can wipe your ass with Nazi propaganda, yo?"  
  
Soon, everyone is scrambling to pick up the pages.  
  
* * *  
  
It's Christmas Eve.  
  
The sky is alight with tracers and flares. It shouldn't be beautiful, but it is.  
  
Ray, Skip, and Don are on outpost duty.  
  
"Merry Christmas, guys," Skip says softly.  
  
"It ain't Christmas yet," Don huffs. "Don't rush me, pal. I haven't even wrapped your present."  
  
Skip lifts an eyebrow. "What'd you get me?"  
  
"More fuckin' snow. I hope you like it."  
  
Skip groans. "No thanks, Don. I got plenty."  
  
The three of them watch the line. There's no movement.  
  
Malark blows on his hands. "If you could have anything you want for Christmas, what would you ask for?" He looks at Ray.  
  
Ray thinks. Copenhagen. Skittles. A bucket of KFC. Sadie. More ammo. His Humvee. "A huge fucking coat," he finally says. "And mittens that aren't full of holes. And a goddamn knit hat. Fuck Patton."  
  
Don laughs. "The general better not catch you or Spina then."  
  
Skip makes a derisive noise. "You can have your coat. All I need is a kiss from Faye Tanner, the sweetest girl in all of Tonawanda and I'll be puh-lenty warm."  
  
"Fuck you," Ray and Don say in unison.  
  
Skip grins, chuckles. "But since I don't got Faye and you don't got a coat, this is the best I can do." He hands out two bent cigarettes, one to Malark, one to Ray.  
  
"Thanks," Ray says. It takes him forever to light it, but his stiff fingers finally cooperate. "What about you?" he asks Don. "What do you want for Christmas?"  
  
Don sighs, keeps his gaze straight ahead. "To get us the fuck out of here in one piece."  
  
Ray's stomach growls. He's beyond hungry. He's about ready to trade his goddamn nuts for a shitty MRE, for some crusty old pound cake, some fucking creamer packets, even.  
  
He looks back on Holland fondly. Rain is nothing. Who gives a shit about rain? At least you can dig a fucking hole in the rain. You don't freeze your ass off. Iraq's constant heat seems like a happy dream. Ball sweat isn't so bad. What in the fuck had he been complaining about?  
  
Winters walks up behind them, feet crunching in the snow. "Anything?"  
  
"No, sir," Ray says.  
  
"All quiet on the Western Front," Winters muses quietly, his breath a cloud. Then: "You guys doing okay out here? I notice it's a little...brisk."  
  
Don laughs. "That's one way to put it, sir."  
  
"Hang tough, gentlemen. When you're done, make sure you get some coffee, okay?"  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
Winters' footsteps crunch away.  
  
Winters is Battalion CO now, but he still spends time with the men. Dike, on the other hand, is nearly always MIA. He's probably trying to dig a hole to fucking China, get himself the hell out of here. Maybe he's building himself a great big tree fort with a sign that says  _No Krauts Allowed._  Who the fuck knows. Winters still shaves every morning, shivering on a tree stump while he scrapes frozen stubble off his face. It's the most retarded thing Ray's ever seen. Also, the most awesome. Winters might be the only person in the world with the power to render Sixta speechless.  
  
Bill, Babe and Compton take over at 2200 hours. Ray, Muck and Malark are tromping back to their foxholes when the shelling starts.  
  
"Incoming!" Skip screams, diving for a hole.  
  
This isn't the usual nightly bombing. This is artillery from somewhere fucking  _close._ Welsh is hit, Ray can hear the little leprechaun yelling from here. Shit. Ray stumbles over fallen branches, staggers through sudden craters. This is like nothing Ray's ever seen. The world is noise, splintering trees, dirt.  
  
One of the new replacements, Junior, is running directly ahead of Ray.  
  
"Get down!" Ray screams. His voice is splintered along with the tree in front of him. Ray ducks, keeps running. When he looks back, Junior is gone.  
  
Ray runs past Shifty, pushes him into a foxhole, does the same to Popeye.  
  
"Ray, get cover!" Lip calls as Ray runs past.  
  
That's a fucking  _awesome_  plan, but Ray wants to make sure the rest of his guys are okay. And Luz. Christ, he hopes Bill is--  
  
He doesn't even hear the shell. One second he's running, rifle bouncing against his thigh, the next he's flying like goddamn Superman. He hits the tree like a train. There's no pain, but he can hear the  _snap_  as his legs break. It's bad. He has time to think  _fucking sonofabitch_  and then--nothing.  
  
* * *  
  
"Jesus Christ, is he okay?"  
  
"Give him some room, dawg."  
  
Ray's lying on his side. He can move his legs. Thank God, because he's got to check on Liebgott and Hoobler. He hopes Luz was able to get through to the Battalion Aid Station. Ray pushes himself to his knees. There's something wrong with the snow.  
  
It's not cold.  
  
It's not even snow.  
  
It's sand.  
  
A gust of dirty, humid air blows over his face.  
  
Ray looks at his legs. There's no blood. But there's camouflage.  
  
He's wearing his cammies.  
  
No.  
  
This isn't happening. Panic twists his gut. He lifts his head.  
  
Brad's crouching beside him, pale. Scared. Ray's never seen him look like that before.  
  
"Ray? Are you okay?"  
  
Poke and Walt, Trombley and Reporter. They're all here, staring. They're not alone. A crowd of Iraqis has gathered around what's left of the ruined house. A woman carries a crying child.  
  
Ray shakes his head.  _No._  He should never have bitched about the cold. He didn't mean it, he takes it back.  
  
Brad extends a hand to help Ray up, but he doesn't take it. He can't. If Ray takes it, he admits this is real, that he's back. That Bill and Skip and Luz are gone.  
  
Ray tries to tell himself this is what he wanted. He's out of the box. Ooh-rah, homes. For seven months he's been dying to get back to his own life, his present. But now that he's here, he doesn't want it. It's too late. He made his peace, he moved on.  
  
This is all wrong.  
  
All of his friends are gone, buried beneath snow and time and history.  
  
Ray looks around. Brad and Poke are clearly worried about him. Reporter looks stunned. One of Ray's boots is lying nearby. He stares at it hard, willing it turn back into a jump boot. It doesn't.  
  
"Say something, dawg," Poke prods.  
  
Ray swallows. "What...happened?"  
  
His pimp glasses are near his boot. One lens is cracked. So is Ray.  
  
"The bomb went boom, man." He glares at Brad. "I told you to leave that shit alone, dawg."  
  
Brad shakes his head. "Fick should have let me--"  
  
"Fick nothing," Poke interrupts. "You'd be white boy jelly if you tried to do that, Brad. As it is, it's a fucking miracle nobody's dead. Hell, it killed a wall and two palm trees." He tries to smile. "Maybe finally knocked a little sense into Ray."  
  
Ray picks up his boot, walks to the Humvee. He pulls the door open, gets behind the wheel.  
  
Brad, Walt and Poke trail behind him.  
  
"Ray," Brad calls. " _Ray._ ."  
  
Person checks his reflection in the rear view mirror. He studies his face, his teeth. Ray pulls at his jacket. Sure enough, his dice tattoo is back. A pair of dice. Para-dice. He never realized how fucking appropriate the tattoo was. The 506th PIR patch was a pair of dice. But Ray's no longer a paratrooper, therefore:  _no dice_ . It's a fucking joke. It's fucking hilarious. He starts to laugh.  
  
Brad's at the window. "What's wrong? You need a doc?" He feels Ray's head, shoulder, arm gingerly.  
  
Trombley's in the back seat. He leans forward "Hey, you got brain damage now?"  
  
Ray puts his head down on the wheel and laughs until he can't breathe. Jesus fucking Christ. He needs his old mantra.  _Dicksuck cockfuck fuckstick dicksuck cockfuck fuckstick._  He's still making a lot of noise, but he's no longer laughing. Did Jesus bother asking his old pal Lazarus if he wanted to come back from the dead? Ray has a good idea Mary and Martha were fucking psyched to have their brother back, but Lazarus himself? Not so much.  
  
"I'll find out what's takin' Doc Bryan so long," Poke says.  
  
Walt and Brad exchange glances. "We shouldn't have let him get up."  
  
Ray coughs, gets control of himself. He doesn't want Bryan. He wants Eugene. He wants Doc Roe and his stupid hair and his stupider accent.  
  
"I'm fine," Ray says. It's probably the biggest lie Ray's ever told. "Just get in the fucking Victor before I leave your worthless asses behind." He wipes his face, reaches for his canteen. He unscrews the cap, pours water over his head. He shakes his hair out like a dog, drinks what's left.  
  
He needs to drive. He needs to concentrate on the terrain, the road. On the glint of muzzles or RPG tubes. He needs to watch out for civilians, avoid junk strewn across pot-holed streets. Ray needs to drive because he sure as hell can't let himself think.  
  
Ray takes two wrong turns. He doesn't remember where the fucking stadium is. It's been seven months. It's been five minutes. Brad doesn't say a thing. He's super calm; he keeps trying to get Ray to talk. This proves Brad is shitting himself with worry. When they get to the stadium, Ray tosses the Ripped Fuel bottle as far as he can. It sails up into the bleachers. Ray's no longer interested in staying awake.  
  
"Ray, I'm sorry," Brad says, putting an arm on Ray's shoulder. "Are you--are you all right?"  
  
Ray closes his eyes, touches his nose with one finger. He walks in a straight line, arms stretched out like an airplane--or a fucking ballerina. He smiles at Brad, thinks about the day Blithe asked him that very question. Ray trots out the same lie. Turns out it works for multiple centuries, go figure.  
  
"Never better."  
  
There's plenty of alcohol in the stadium. Ray sits on top of the Rudy's Humvee and drinks. Not enough to get drunk, but enough to go a little numb. The last thing he needs is to start babbling about how much he misses Easy Company. He slides his broken sunglasses into his pocket, feels something already in there. A square of paper. He pulls it out, unfolds it. It's one of the propaganda fliers from Bastogne. Ray stares at it until his eyes blur, his head aches. He carefully refolds it, puts it back.  
  
Across the stadium, some retarded asshole has his M-16 caught on the fence. When he finally gets it free, the retard tumbles halfway down the steps like he's in a fucking sitcom. Everybody laughs.  
  
Except Ray.  
  
* * *  
  
The next day they leave Baghdad behind. Ray drives. He holds the steering wheel like a lifeline. Bravo ends up at an abandoned factory, their new home for the foreseeable future.  
  
Ray, Brad, Trombley, and Walt are doing inventory.  
  
"This sucks," Ray says dully.  
  
Brad shrugs. "We need this inventoried down to the last bullet before we ship out."  
  
The sound of a gunshot cracks through the facility, followed by a soft whimper.  
  
Hasser looks up. "The fuck is that?"  
  
"They got wild dogs roaming around the camp, by the shitters. They use shotguns on 'em."  
  
"You see, Sergeant? We  _do_  shoot dogs in Iraq," Trombley says, smug.  
  
Ray wants to punch James in the face. He wants to punch Trombley until his knuckles bleed, and then for a good long while after that. He sees an image of Tab's dog back in Holland. The way Trigger's tail wagged when Luz shared his crackers, the way he followed Skip around, slept with his head on Bill's legs.  
  
"Hey, where the fuck did you go?" Brad asks, pulling Ray back to reality. "You haven't said two words since Baghdad."  
  
Ray looks at Brad. For one fleeting second thinks Brad  _knows_ , but no. Colbert's just weirded out by Ray's silence. Too fucking bad.  
  
Person shrugs a shoulder, tries to conjure up a response. "No more Ripped Fuel." He looks around the crumbling building. "Man, it seems no matter where we go as Marines, it's always some fucking shit-hole."  
  
This place is a dump compared to the barn, to most of the other places Easy stayed. Sure, the Marines make do, but do they always have to make do with shit?  
  
Wright walks up, carrying his bags.  
  
"Well, I'll see y'all." He looks at them, awkward. "Uh, thanks."  
  
Ray musters a weak-ass smile. He can't helping wishing Reporter had had the chance to see the 506th in action. Now  _that_  would have made a fucking good story.  
  
"Stay frosty," Brad says.  
  
Ray almost says  _hang tough_ , but doesn't. Those words belong to Winters. To the past.  
  
Reporter leaves and Espera shows up two seconds later.  
  
"Hey, yo." He tosses a football like he's fucking QB1. "We're gonna play some guys from Alpha. You guys up for that?" He looks at Brad and Ray, expectant. "Ooh-rah, motherfuckers."  
  
Ray was supposed to play in the Christmas game back in France. Ray's a pretty shitty football player, but this is the closest he's ever going to get to having that moment back. He slides off the ledge he's been sitting on.  
  
"Fuck it. I'll play."  
  
Brad smiles at him. "Back among the living?"  
  
That's right. Him and Lazarus.  
  
Ray figures if he sweats his ass off in the afternoon sun he won't have time to think about why he's back. So he concentrates on making fun of Rudy, because that's familiar. And maybe a little dangerous. Maybe he wants Rudy to knock him down, because it might just send him back. Fuck, he didn't even get to say goodbye to the guys.  
  
But when Rudy slams into Ray, he's still here. Ray's on his back, and all he sees is the same sky that hung over Bastogne. The sky's the same, but nothing else is. Ray is still stuck firmly in the now. Person pushes himself to his feet, breathing hard. He is so furious, so fucking angry, he launches himself at Reyes. He knocks the big fucker down like a bowling pin. He's not even mad at Rudy, he's just  _mad._  
  
Only now Rudy's pissed too and he  _is_  mad at Ray. Rudy's punching him and Ray screams at him to get off, but there's a part of him, a small, insistent part that wonders what would happen if Rudy beat him to death. If he died, would he go back? Does he really want to? And exactly how fucked up is it if he wants to go back to a frozen wasteland with broken legs--or worse?  
  
Except it's a moot point because Jacks and Garza pull Rudy off, and Ray's still  _here_ , standing on dry brown grass, sweating his balls off when he should be knee-deep in snow. He should have trench foot and be jammed against Hoobler for warmth while the kid whines about not having a fucking Luger.  
  
Ray starts screaming. He's shrieking  _motherfucker_  at Rudy like he's to blame for everything. Like it's Rudy's fault jocks like Compton used to beat him up, that Skip and Penk and Luz and Liebgott left Ray behind, that his grandmother is still dead, that he's back, smack-dab in the middle of his stupid fucking life.  
  
Ray yells at Rudy, but the person he's  _really_  angry at is himself. For not understanding what the fuck is happening. He's angry he never asked his grandpa about the War before he died, he's mad he'll never see his grandma again, tell her he loved her one last time. Ray is angry because he never got to say goodbye to men that were selfless and brave, men like Winters who didn't shoot fucking kids or blow up villages full of women and children.  
  
Ray screams until he's hoarse.  
  
Then he stalks off the field, crying.  
  
Rudy calls after him, apologetic, but Ray doesn't stop.  
  
Brad tries to talk to him, but Ray ignores him too. There's nothing to say. Either Ray went into the past or he's fucking crazy. Hell, maybe both are true. But it doesn't fucking matter because no one would believe him anyway. He doesn't belong in the present and he doesn't belong in the past. Ray's used to feeling like an outsider, but this is too fucking much.  
  
He ends up behind the shit-hole building. He pulls out a pack of Haji cigarettes. A piece of paper comes with the smokes. The German leaflet. Ray starts to cry harder. He rubs his hand over the paper, sniffs it, presses it to his forehead. The paper is real. It's  _real._  He refolds it, puts it back in pocket. His hands are shaking, but he manages to light the cigarette on his second try.  
  
Was it all some sort of test? A punishment? The fucking whim of some God Ray doesn't even believe in? Some magic cloud of poison gas that fucked up his brain?  
  
Brad sits beside him.  
  
"You want to tell me what that was all about?"  
  
Ray wipes his face. "No."  
  
"Okay." Brad crosses his arms over his knees, squints at the horizon. "I'll just sit here and let you admire my manly profile then."  
  
Ray bows his head, inhales smoke, blows it back out. "I have to get the fuck out of here. I have to go home." Ray doesn't even know what that means. He has no idea where home is. It's just a word.   
  
"You think it's gonna be better back home?"  
  
Ray had considered reenlisting, but not anymore. No fucking way. He's just been through two wars for the price of one.  
  
Person wipes his face, sniffs. "I think it's gonna feel shitty and I don't know if I'll be able to stand it, but it's got to be better than sitting here." It's got to be better, because Ray doesn't see how it could be any fucking worse.  
  
Brad doesn't reply, but he doesn't get up. He just shifts a little closer to Ray and they both stare at a sky the color of Albert Blithe's eyes.  
  
* * *  
  
Sadie and his mother are waiting for him at the airport.  
  
There's a lot of crying and hugging, Ray lets them do both. Ray's quiet on the drive to his mother's house. Sadie's quiet too, she senses his mood. She's good like that. She just holds his hand like she's never going to let go.  
  
His mother orders pizza and ordinarily, Ray would be shoveling it in, because  _pizza_ , but he's not hungry. He walks up to the fake mantle instead, and picks up the small photo in the cheap silver frame. The photo is creased and faded behind the glass, but Ray recognizes it from his childhood. And from the months it spent tucked in his helmet. Ray's throat shrinks to the size of a straw, a needle. He holds the photo and blinks back tears.  
  
His mother puts an arm around his shoulders. She reads his mind, just like always. "Grandma would want you to have that, you know."  
  
"No, I--"  
  
She shakes her head. "No arguments. You take it."  
  
"Thanks," Ray whispers.  
  
He has to excuse himself, go hide in the bathroom. He turns on the water, splashes his face. They're probably out there right now, whispering, wondering if the war broke him. It did, just not the war they think.  
  
When Ray comes back, Sadie has a beer waiting for him by the couch. He sits down, pops the can open.   
  
"Ma? I was wondering, can you tell me about Grandpa? One thing I kept thinking about over there was...I'm sorry I never got to talk to him about World War Two. What things were like for him, you know? Like, how long did he fight?"  
  
"Honey, you were just a little boy when Grandpa died. Most five year olds don't have a big interest in history." His mother leans back in her chair, thinking. "Dad never talked about the war much. So most of this is stuff Mom told me. I know Dad was a paratrooper in the 101st Airborne. He fought in Normandy and Holland, and he was injured in the Battle of the Bulge. A shell landed next to his foxhole, shattered both his legs. They didn't think he'd walk again." She smiles faintly. "But he did."  
  
His mother stands. "That reminds me." She walks to the closet, pulls down a shoe box. "Grandma put together a box for you after you left." She hands him the shoebox. "It's some of Grandpa's old war stuff, she thought you might like it."  
  
* * *  
  
He and Sadie fuck a lot.  
  
 _A lot._  
  
It's good. Being with her is the only thing that makes him feel grounded. Present. ( _Sane._ ) She stays over at his place his first night back. Ray watches her sleep for a while. It's weird to be back in a real bed.  
  
When she's asleep he gets up, drifts around his apartment. None of the furniture feels like his. He feels like a stranger, like he's in someone else's house. He doesn't know what's wrong with him.  
  
Eventually he ends up in front of his laptop. He uses his neighbor's Wi-Fi connection to log on to the internet. He spends two hours Googling names. By the time he's done, he's crying. He feels like it shouldn't hurt to know the men he fought with died years before he was even born, but it does.  
  
Skip Muck and Alex Penkala died  _days_  after Ray left. So did Don Hoobler. What if Ray had still been there? Would it have made a difference?  
  
Joe Toye is dead. So is Luz. And Lipton. Liebgott and Talbert. Johnny Martin. Doc Roe. Blithe made it home from the war, but he died in 1967. They're all dead. Ray pulls the leaflet from his pocket, crumples it in one hand.  
  
Ray pads into the bathroom with the shoebox. He shuts the door, flicks on the light. He sits cross-legged on the faded rug, lifts off the top. Inside is a colored photo of Ray Henry Person in his dress uniform. The watch from Perconte. It's silent now, the leather band stiff and cracked. The silver lighter. His jump wings. Ray picks them up, polishes them gently on the hem of his t-shirt. There's a Purple Heart inside a presentation box, various other medals folded into a piece of wax paper.  
  
A black and white group  [photo](http://i95.photobucket.com/albums/l121/fishuu/warBigBangFinal-1.jpg)  of men smiling, a towering hill in the distance. Ray recognizes his grandpa, Luz, Doc Roe, Bill, Skip, Dukeman. It's a photo of ghosts. There's a pack of letters bound with a ribbon. Ray flips through them, finds the one addressed to Arlene in his own handwriting. So she'd received it, read it. But she hadn't known the letter was from him, so the goodbye doesn't really count.  
  
At the bottom of the box is a lone envelope. The name  _Josh_  is written across it in his grandmother's familiar cursive. Ray's heart thunders in his ears as he opens it.  
  
 _Dear Joshie,  
  
I love you more than I know how to say. No one makes me prouder than you. You are so much like your grandfather, so much braver, so much kinder than you let on. You are smart and funny and talented. Being your grandmother has been such a joy. Believe in yourself Ray, always. No matter what happens.  
  
All my love,  
Grandma_  
  
Ray closes his eyes, covers his face, weeps into his hands. Why is this letter in the box? Had she known what happened? Had Grandpa Ray told her he had some kind of weird experience? Was she just writing to say she loved him, or is there another, subtler meaning? Ray doesn't know. He used to feel like he knew stuff: might makes right, war is the answer, shit like that. Now all he has are questions.  
  
At some point Sadie comes in. She sits beside him in his old Ozzy t-shirt. She doesn't ask why he's crying like a fucking retard, she simply threads her fingers through his.  
  
"Do you want to talk about it?"  
  
Ray shakes his head. She probably thinks he's crying for all the dead kids he saw in Iraq. For the decapitated corpses. Over the sheer stupidity of everything. She'd be right. But he's also crying for William Dukeman and his lost brothers. Why did God or fate or destiny or some fucking secret chemical bullshit make these men part of his life, only to take them away? Why learn all this shit about his grandpa if Ray can't even talk to him about it?  
  
"I love you," Sadie tells him, pulling Ray's head onto her shoulder. "I love you, Ray, and I'm proud of you."  
  
Ray can barely get the word out. " _Why?_ "  
  
"Because you're a good man. Because you served your country. Because you came back. Because you love me."  
  
Yes. That last part is true at least. He does love her. He's no Winters, he's no Luz, but he has enough brain power to recognize a good woman. Even if Ray doesn't fully understand what he's been through--or why--he can still love Sadie. Loving her is the only simple thing in his life.  
  
"I know there are things you don't want to think about," Sadie tells him. "Things you don't want to remember. Things that make no sense. But Ray, I'm not going anywhere. I want to be here for you. I want to make  _new_  memories with you.  
  
"I want to make you laugh and kiss you when you don't expect it. I want to color your tattoos in with magic marker when you're sleeping. I want to hold your hand and make fun of kids and old people with you. I want to go swimming with you. I want to walk with you until we get lost. I want to read the same book as you, at the same time, so we can sit on opposite sides of the room and talk about it. I want to make you understand that no matter what you've been through, no matter how hard coming home is, I want to make things better for you. I want to help you, if you'll let me."  
  
She runs her hands through his hair, kisses his forehead, the corner of his mouth.  
  
"Tell me what to do, Ray. I'll do anything," Sadie says. Her voice is trembling.  
  
Ray can't look at her. He's too ashamed. He doesn't deserve her.  
  
"Tell me...tell me why I'm here," he pleads, hating himself.  
  
Sadie doesn't understand what he means. He doesn't expect her to.  
  
"You're here so--so I can love you," she says, leaning her forehead against his.  
  
Ray breathes in the scent of her hair, of her skin. There's no oil, no dirt, no cordite here. Despite this omission, Ray thinks she might still make a good home. Maybe that's enough. Maybe it's not about where he went. Maybe it's about where he is _now._  Who he is now: a man who's more thankful, less jaded. A man who had the chance to stand alone together with some of the best and bravest men in the world. Maybe,  _maybe_  knowing the men of Easy Company made Ray a better person. He can only hope.  
  
* * *  
  
Christ. He hasn't been this nervous in ages. He wasn't even this nervous when they rolled out of Camp Mathilda. Or on the way to Bastogne.  
  
He checks the address scribbled on his hand, enters the bar. There's a man sitting at a corner table. He's small and bent, a baseball cap on his head. A pair of crutches lean against the table. Ray doesn't recognize him, but he knows the emblem on the baseball cap: a Screaming Eagle. And when the old man opens his mouth, Bill Guarnere's voice comes out, the accent just as thick as it was 60 years before.  
  
Bill looks up, beams. "Holy shit, if it ain't Percy."  
  
The sound of his ( _grandfather's_ ) nickname makes Ray smile. It also brings tears to his eyes. He blinks them back.  
  
"Uh, can I buy you a beer?"  
  
Bill nods. "Hell yeah, kid."  
  
Ray orders two beers, brings them to the table.  
  
Bill studies Ray's face. "You're the spittin' image of your granddad. Jesus Christ, if you wouldn'ta called me I'd a taken one look at you and thought I was seein' a goddamn ghost."  
  
Ray smiles, sits down. "Thank you for taking the time to meet with me."  
  
Bill taps his mug, winks. "Don't underestimate the power of free beer, Ray."  
  
Ray laughs. He can't believe he's really here. That he found Bill. That Bill agreed to see him. It's a fucking miracle.  
  
"So you just got back from Iraq, huh?"  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"You a Marine?"  
  
And a paratrooper. "Yes, sir. First Recon, Bravo Company. And you were with the 101st Airborne, 506th PIR, Easy Company."  
  
Guarnere rolls his eyes. "First of all, don't give me that 'yes, sir' shit. I ain't a sergeant no more. You call me Bill. Second of all, you don't gotta give me a fucking book report, kid."  
  
Ray smiles into his beer glass. "Sorry. I'm just...I'm really excited to see you. My grandpa spoke very highly of you...of all the Easy guys. I almost feel like--" Ray's voice falters "--I know you myself."  
  
Bill chuckles. "Oh yeah. Your grandad was somethin' else. The mouth on that guy. Him and Luz and Skippy Muck were always gettin' into trouble. Lemme tell you though, Ray was the only one who could get Georgie's radio workin'. Percy was a good man." Bill smiles wistfully. "Damn shame he passed away."  
  
Bill takes another drink of beer, slams the mug down on the table. "But hell, we all gotta take that final jump sooner or later, right?" He wipes his mouth.  
  
"So," Bill asks, "how was things over in the desert? They pretend we're kickin' ass with the shock and awe, but that's just bullshit."  
  
"It was shitty," Ray admits. "But not as shitty as what you guys went through though."  
  
Bill waves a hand, annoyed. "It ain't a contest. You did your duty, I did mine." He grins. His face is older, but the smile is the same, just as mischievous as ever. "They call guys my age the greatest generation. Shows what they fuckin' know. Every generation has assholes, every generation has decent guys." Bill cackles. "I was a decent asshole." He leans forward. "Know the best thing about coming home from war?"  
  
Ray shakes his head.  
  
"We get to drink cold beer." Ray takes another drink, empties his mug. Ray waves the bartender over for a refill.  
  
She comes over, refills Bill's glass, pats his hand. She's obviously fond of him.  
  
Bill smiles, touches the brim of his hat. "Thanks, doll." He returns his attention to Ray. "So how're you doing? Got any of that PTSD shit? In my day they called it combat fatigue. Fuckin' stupid name if you ask me. Who doesn't get tired of combat? I was pretty lucky though. Didn't have no nightmares. Worst thing that happened to me was I got a pair of crutches." Bill gestures to the crutches leaning against the table. "Big fuckin' deal."  
  
The loss of a limb might immobilize some men. But Bill? Nothing slows him down. His inner strength could probably knock Rudy over. Ray fights the urge to run outside and pull people off the street so he can show them how fucking awesome this dude is.  
  
"Problem with kids today," Bill continues, "is the same as kids in my day. These assholes think war is the goddamn answer. I used to be one of those assholes. Once I saw a couple of my friends blown to bits I kinda changed my mind. War ain't the goddamn answer, Ray. It never is." Bill looks mildly chagrined. "And I don't mean no disrespect. You ain't an asshole."  
  
Ray laughs. "Oh, yes I am. Give it another few minutes and you'll be able to figure that out on your own." He thinks back to goofing around with Poke and Pappy and Manimal at Mathilda, his response to little Freddy's retarded letter.  
  
Person takes a deep breath. He takes a sip of beer, forces himself to meet Bill's gaze. "So what is the answer?" he asks hoarsely.  
  
Bill barks laughter. "Christ, who do you think I am? Fuckin' Houdini?" Bill grins and slaps the table. "Ah, I'm just kiddin'.  
  
“Me and Babe were damn lucky to surround ourselves with good fuckin' guys. Bein' with those men--my brothers--made me a better person. I don't doubt that for a second, kid." Bill holds up a finger, points at Ray.  
  
"That's the answer, the friendships you make in this life." He lifts an eyebrow, thrusts out his jaw. "Not to mention beer." Bill pulls his cap off, deposits it on Ray's head. "Lookit that. Now you're a Screamin' Eagle too."  
  
Ray laughs and lifts his mug. He taps it gently against Gonorrhea's. For the first time in a long time, Ray thinks he might be okay.  
  
"To friendship and beer," he says. The motherfucking answer.


End file.
